China Prep Blog

Feeling Free

What exactly is freedom? Coming to China from the west, I had always taken for granted that I understood freedom, that I knew it far better than my Chinese hosts did. As someone who had grown up in the west, I had always just assumed that freedom was like any other condition: either present or not. For me, it happened to be present. As I sat talking to the man at Jingshan Park though, I realized I had been wrong. Freedom is more than a word, a simple condition.
 

Laoye spoke in slow, deliberate sentences. He had been sitting alone at a bench near the bottom of the mountain when I walked over, Chinese book in hand, to do some reading/studying. At first he tried to play ignorant with regards to the foreigner sitting next to him. He continued his arm stretches, quietly. Slowly though, I sensed his motions ease up, and felt him stealing glances over my shoulders at the book I was reading. When he read the title, he gave a short cry of surprise, and quickly asked me why I was reading the story I was reading. I told him that I thought it was fascinating, that I enjoyed the relaxed yet deep story-telling style of the writer.

He knew the story well. It was about Houyi, the fabled Chinese archer who had shot down nine of the ten suns that were burning the earth, thus cooling the earth so that humans could again sustain life. As a reward, God supposedly gave Houyi an "immortality elixir", which his wife consequently stole from him, and drank secretly. Houyi's wife, upon drinking the potion, floated to the moon to live forever in a paradise full of comforts and exotic goods. But she was forever to be confined to this life of luxury, unable to go back to earth and see her husband and friends.
 

I told Laoye that I felt sorry for Houyi's wife, that I would never want to be trapped in a world without friends, without choices, without the freedom to move about and explore new places. As I spoke, I could tell that he didn't fully agree with my interpretation.

"With everything you need to live, no need to ever worry again, how could you ever complain?", he asked.

I thought about his response, struck by his entirely different angle of looking at the story. "But she is still without freedom, without the right to self-determination."

"But with everything a free man could ever want, what use to you is an obscure word like freedom?", he asked.

We continued discussing the story for some time, then moved on to different subject matter. I felt like what Laoye had to say about the story revealed a good deal about his own personal experiences. Later in our conversation, when he told me about his upbringing, and what had happened to his family, I found that much of what I had sensed was true. His father had been a victim of the Cultural Revolution, and he himself had spent his adolescent years in re-education labor camps along with his father. His chance to gain an education was forgone, and he grew up constantly forced to endure his father's pain: the pain of an intellectual whose ideas had been suppressed. He had also had to endure perpetual hunger, and the ever-imminent threat of starvation. Laoye knew of pain and suppression that I can not even fathom. His long, thoughtful, drawn out sentences, carried much more than words: they carried a dark history and past that had finally been left behind.

Laoye knew little of my idealistic and strictly Western conceptions of freedom. However, he did know that these days, he was able to eat three meals a day, play games with his friends in the afternoon, and do his exercises in the park every morning.

Freedom is relative to your experiences.

Character Mountain

Part of the reason I first wanted to go to China, and in turn learn Chinese, was because I felt like it would be an enormous challenge. I felt like by learning Chinese, I was in some strange way proving something, both to myself, and to others. In reality though, I don't think I had any idea exactly how difficult Chinese would be to learn, and what my chances were of successfully attaining even the slightest degree of fluency.

Arriving in China, I was fortunate enough to be placed really in an ideal learning environment. Nanjing, the city I lived in, was a moderately sized Chinese city, which meant that there were very few foreigners relative to the amount in Beijing or nearby Shanghai. Furthermore, the dialect spoken in Nanjing greatly resembles the proper Mandarin spoken in Beijing. I attended regular Chinese high school every day as the only foreigner in a school of around 2,000 students, and then returned to my Chinese host family every night to relax, eat dinner, and speak nothing but Chinese. But still, progress was slow. It was months before I felt any kind of momentum, before the elusive characters started to take shape before my eyes. As they took shape, they in turn developed meaning. I can remember biking home every day from school, and being able to recognize more and more of the characters that I passed by. Inundated by the language, it became easy to remember the characters that I learned. It was within this context that I learned my Chinese.

When I left Nanjing at the end of the 2006 academic year, Chinese was no longer a challenge. It had become a passion, and of course a practical means of communication. I continued learning during my junior year in the states, and was fortunate enough to continue my studies through China Prep again last summer living in Shanghai.

My stay in Beijing this summer marks an important crossroads in my study of the Chinese language. It is very rare for anyone to be a serious student of Chinese, without ever having spent time living in Beijing. The city is much more than the simple governmental and historical capital of modern China. It is also the home of what we now consider to be standard Chinese, or Mandarin. Only living in Beijing for this amount of time, have a realized just how affected my Chinese foundation was by learning in a southern city like Nanjing. Subtleties in my spoken Chinese immediately tip off an alert Beijing that I am a so-called "Nanfangren", or southerner. Unconsciously, I will slur the "sh" sound into a simple "s". Unnoticed, my "zh" will drift into an unsuspecting "z". My "de" character will often adopt a accentuated ending, becoming a "deh". It is these things and more that I've discovered about my Chinese since arriving here in Beijing. Of course, I have no regrets with regards to the way I learned Chinese. If I had lived in Nanjing all that time, and spoke only standard putonghua (Mandarin), that would certainly have indicated an unwillingness on my part to engage with the local people. But as my interest in China "matures", I recognize that my putonghua too will have to improve. Beijing has humbled my perception of my own mandarin Chinese. Just today I had a comical experience that was a result of a language mistake.

I sat watching the TV at one of my favorite little dumpling spots, recuperating myself after declaring victory over the restaurants infamous 6 yuan/25 dumpling special. A Chinese gymnast was fighting for a gold, and much of the restaurant had stopped to watch him compete. His Chinese name read YangWei (a second tone followed by a fourth). The owner of the restaurant, who had taken a seat next to me, asked me if I thought China would get the medal. I answered that I thought Yangwei (two consecutive second tones) should have a good chance of taking the medal. The entire restaurant, sparked by my response, burst into laughter. I was dumbstruck, completely unaware of what I had said. The owner told me that I by messing up the second tone in Yangwei's name, I had referred to him as the Chinese word for "impotence". The word is a common insult, and can be heard on the basketball courts or soccer fields all over China. It is perhaps one of the most rude ways to call your opponent inadequate, or even pathetic. I had answered his question by saying that I thought "impotence had a good chance of taking the gold medal." No wonder they had laughed.

While I'm certainly gaining ground in my study of Mandarin Chinese, I am constantly encountering unopened doors. This summer has perhaps been most beneficial in that it has demonstrated to me exactly what I need to do to attain my desired level of fluency. But as I climb this mountain, I'm constantly impressed by how the scenery and landscape grow. Each time I stop and look back down on the ground that I've covered, I'm given courage and motivation to continue my ascent.

Basketball "Dream"

When my parents told me five years ago that our family would be moving to the United States, I felt a mix of eager anticipation and outright fear. I had only been to New York on a few occasions, and while I liked it a good deal, I'll be honest: it scared the crap out of me. While the city of my childhood, Montreal, is a much bigger city than our family's destination in New York state, I pretty much presumed that American schools, particularly those in New York, would be violence-ridden, gang-run and drug invested. With almost a year before we were set to move, I decided that I was going to do everything possible to prepare myself so that I could fit into, and adjust to, my new environment. While I had grown up as a typical Montrealer (by that I mean that I played and loved hockey), I figured that I'd have to start playing a new sport in order to fit into this intimidating new country. Basketball was thus introduced and instilled into an eh-saying, hockey-playing, Canadian teenager's mind.

I practiced every day after school until it was too dark to see the hoop. With the goal of fitting into my new school and culture at the forefront of my mind I slowly but surely improved my game. While I was wrong (at least to some degree) about the nature of the school I was to attend in New York, I was correct in that it was very difficult to make friends and integrate myself. The first couple of months were rough. When winter sports season rolled around, I was determined to make the junior varsity basketball team, and through a combination of hard work, and pure luck, I was given a spot on the roster. As a member of a team, I quickly found a place in the new school, and had little problem making new friends. All of this is to say that basketball is much more than a mere sport to me. Basketball propelled me into a comfort zone in a completely different culture.

I could never, ever, ever have ever imagined that Basketball would serve a common purpose for me in China. When I arrived in 2005, my first memory is waking up on my first morning in Shanghai to the sound of bouncing basketballs outside my hotel window. Basketball helped me relate to my classmates, and bond with friends over a common love.

This summer in Beijing, it would be appropriate to say that the entire basketball world is here in Beijing. Name your favorite player (who doesn't play for the Celtics), and there's a great chance that they are here competing for the gold. Quite fittingly, my first Chinese friend in Beijing, who I met the day of my arrival, was a short, tattooed, Beijingren with a thick northern accent and a jumpshot that could connect from nearly any corner of the court. The name he goes by is Huli, which in Chinese means fox. He was given the nickname because of his stealthy and artful style of play on the basketball court. His right arm is covered, top to bottom, with intricately drawn tattoos of basketball imagery. His right arm bears a large portrait of his idol, and self-described "reason for living": Stephon Marbury. When I first played with Huli, before even stepping on the court I knew that he had skill. He and five of his friends were going to meet at 6:30 a.m. at the downtown Dongdan courts. They play that early to avoid the "chumps" that they say flood the courts later in the day.

Playing with them was incredibly fun, and quite challenging to say the least. They had recruited, specially for that day, a tall and agile player from Beijing who was on leave from the Jiangsu Province semi-professional team: the Nanjing Dragons. We played for hours until we were exhausted. After playing basketball with Huli and his crew, I was even more excited about being in Beijing, about being surrounded by the best international talent in the world.

Little did I know that on that Tuesday night, I was to go with a group to the USA mens basketball game versus Angola. If I was excited before the women's basketball game I went to, I don't know how to articulate how I felt in the lead up to 8:00 pm that night. I couldn't focus on anything. I had trouble engaging myself in normal conversations. Time seemed to be passing so slowly! Why couldn't 8:00 just be here already? I decided that the only way I wouldn't overflow with anticipation was to go to Huli's basketball jersey store (yes, he does live, breathe, and eat basketball) and talk about basketball.

Finally, 8:00 arrived. The stadium seemed to be completely packed, the players on the court, larger than life. Dunk after dunk thrown down by Kobe, D-Wade, and Lebron sent me leaping out of my seat in awe. All around me, Chinese men and women seemed as excited as I was to see their favorite superstars display their gifts. After the US had thoroughly dismantled and banished Angola from the court, Argentina was the play against Australia. I snuck down court side, and at one point was sitting about 5 ft away from NBA champion Manu Ginobili.

As I left the stadium that night, I felt so alive, so full of energy. Here I was, on the complete opposite side of the world in the capital of China, surrounded by people who shared with me a common love. I thought back on basketball, and the purpose it had served in my life. Again, I am convinced that the Olympics, and sports in general, are much more than a simple game.

A Mysterious Manager

I walked down the old hutong, drifting in and out of different tourist-oriented shops. Upon my friend's recommendation, I had begun to frequent a restored hutong in the Dongcheng area of Beijing. It was called Nanluoguxiang, which translated very roughly into English means "Southern Percussion Lane". With a history that extends more than 700 years back, Nanluoguxiang is one of Beijing's oldest hutong areas and has been one of Beijing’s 25 cultural and historical protection areas since 1990. Beginning with the opening of the "Pass by Bar" (in Chinese: GuoKe) in 1998, Nanluoguxiang has endured a steady tide of investment, rebuilding, and like most hutongs, gentrification. Since 1998, over 30 cafes have opened along the lane, most catering to foreigners and upper-class Chinese. Currently, the lane has achieved perhaps a unique balance between tourist attraction, and local character.

Looking at the various Chinese menus along the street, I was drawn into one restaurant that looked particularly lively and of course, cheap. Walking in, I was greeted by a loud yell from the back. It came from a little woman who was multitasking by the cash register. She immediately got my attention. There was something about her. She had this aura, a way of carrying herself and handling her patrons that mixed impatience with clever and witty hospitality. When a Chinese man sitting in front complained loudly to her that they had made his soup too spicy, she trotted over, picked up his spoon, and slurped a taste. Rubbing her belly, she promptly said "haochi" (yummy!). Now, that would most certainly have been considered rude in a fancy restaurant, but this wasn't a fancy restaurant, and the way she had done it just made the man smile and laugh his complaint off. Walking over to my table, I felt somewhat tense, completely unsure what to expect from this woman who came off as so impetuous, so unpredictable. I stuttered my order in Chinese, causing her to laugh and smile at me as she walked away.

The food turned out to be quite good and cheap, which justified frequent returns. But in all honestly, there's no shortage of cheap and delicious eats in China. The real reason I kept on going back was to see the mysterious waitress who had first surprised me so. On my third visit, she came over mid-meal and took a break to talk to me. Her name was Sui An, and she was the manager of joint. I introduced myself. As we sat and talked, I was further intrigued by her questioning nature and genuine enthusiasm for listening and learning. After talking for a little while, she had to get back to work, and I thus paid my check and left. Walking down Nanluoguxiang, I realized that other than her name, I knew basically nothing about her. She had been such a good listener that I had talked without end. Feeling like an idiot, I figured that she had become bored and  was simply pretending to be interested. But when I returned the next day, she picked up her questioning exactly where she had left off. This time I was determined to be a better conversationalist and find out more about her.

Sui An wasn't a typical Chinese young adult. She had decided not to take the gaokao (college entrance exam), but still had managed, using her people skills, to find herself with a good and secure job. She ran a restaurant on Nanluoguxiang, which has a large number of foreigner patrons, yet she speaks no English, and refuses to even try. When foreigners come to her restaurant and try to speak English, she invariably responds to their inquiries with a joking/clueless "You're crazy!", which comes out sounding something like "yo kr-ah-sea". She plays classic rock and roll in her sit down restaurant, mostly a mix of Guns N' Roses and the Rolling Stones, and when not busy, will mouth the words to any song she plays. She wears just about anything, from pyjamas, to baggy jeans, to colorful summer dresses.

My time in Beijing will soon come to a close, but I'm absolutely sure that I'll be back soon. With charismatic and independent minded people like Sui An waiting to greet me here, I plan to be singing "Beijing Huanying Nin" (the official Beijing 2008 Olympics song) long after these summer games end.

Capital Confusion

Waking up on the second day of the Olympics, I had a full day of work ahead of me. I was to help organize Olympic ticket delivery between an American businessman, and his clients in Beijing. As I was finishing my breakfast eggs, my roommate, Josh, told me some rather disheartening news. Apparently a Chinese man had randomly attacked and stabbed two American tourists and their Chinese tour guide atop the historic Gulou Drum Tower in central Beijing. One of the Americans had died, while the attacker had jumped to his death from the second floor of the ancient site. When I heard the news, I was shocked.

A fatal stabbing of a foreign tourist, here, in Beijing, less than twelve hours after the lighting of the Olympic flame. Firstly, I was shocked because attacks of this nature are close to unheard of in China. Secondly, because security in Beijing is incredibly tight. One can't get on a subway or into any historic sight without having one's bags searched. The Drum Tower is a mere 5 minutes away from my home. How could something like this possibly happen?

When I found out in the morning, I wasn't exactly feeling too cheerful. Just the night before I had read the news and discovered what was happening in Georgia. Two nights ago, at the opening ceremony, Putin had waved confidently to the world on television. As he smiled nonchalantly, and as I and another 4 billion other people were enjoying the grandeur of the opening ceremony, thousands of innocent Georgians were being killed. At the opening ceremony I had watched an entire show that was meant to promote the "One World, One Dream" slogan. With the fireworks, bright lights, and joyous athletes, the whole spiel felt so believable. But that morning, as I sat in the apartment delaying delivering the tickets, I couldn't get myself together. Sports suddenly felt so incredibly trivial, inconsequential, in a world full of violence. The excitement of the Olympics was sharply interrupted by actuality.

Getting into the cab for my first delivery, conversation somehow came about with the cab driver. He asked me what I thought about the opening ceremony, and I replied to him honestly, in the same cynical manner that I was feeling. He had heard of the Russian attacks on Georgia, but the Drum Tower attacks were still unknown to him (not surprisingly when you live in an news void). I told him what had happened. Our conversation went dead. The driver remained silent, not looking back.
   

We drove on towards my destination. When we arrived at the Hilton, I paid the fare and was preparing to leave the cab. The driver suddenly turned around, looking at me directly in the eyes. He spoke timidly, but with a conviction and passion that rendered me stone cold. "...I'm so sorry. I don't know how to say it... I don't know how to express myself... I'm so fucking sorry", he said, with tears brimming on his eye lids.

When I was walking back down from the delivery, I suddenly felt much better. The moment I had shared with the driver was truly evidence that this world had only "One Dream": to attain peace and understanding. In the heat of the action, I had again been caught up in my emotions. Talking to the driver though, I felt a bond, a connection. I wasn't alone. If it weren't for the olympics, I would never have met him. If it weren't for our meeting each other, my cynicism may have lingered. I'll never forget how that cab driver made me feel. I'll never forget his sincerity and compassion.

Thank you, driver.

Olympic Debut

Through an incredible stroke of good fortune, I was put in a situation through China Prep to be attending a number of Olympic events during the first week. Thus, as the day wound down, my tension and excitement rose to near boiling point. While I'm too young to remember a substantial number of Summer games, the three that I can remember (Atlanta, Sydney, and Athens) hold near untouchable places in my mind. Nothing will ever be able to tamper with the beautiful image I have of Mohammed Ali lighting the torch in front of his home country in Atlanta; or Ian Thorpe's mind-boggling opening day performance in his home country of Australia, winning two gold medals and a world record less than a day after the torch was lit; or the absolutely stunning and historic return of the games to Athens after a 108 year hiatus. These memories and others crossed through my mind as I stood in my room that afternoon simply staring at my tickets. Was it really true? Was I really going to become a part of this incredible international tradition?

The tickets were for women's basketball. China was to take on Spain on their home soil at the new Olympic Basketball stadium at Wukesong. Women's basketball isn't nearly as popular as men's basketball in China. To be entirely honest, I rarely hear any news or conversations venture to the domain of women's basketball in this country. But arriving at the stadium, one could not possibly have known. Nearly every seat was taken, with organized cheers running from all corners of the stadium: "Zhong-guo dui, jia-you! Zhong-guo dui, jia-you!" (Go China Go, Go China Go!).

While the level of basketball was relatively low compared to the WNBA competition in the US, the court, the general basketball complex, and the atmosphere were spectacular. The seats were installed in a way that even if one sat in the upper rows, they would have a clear shot of the floor. Luckily, I personally didn't have to deal with this. We were close enough to the floor that player's facial expressions and sentiments could easily be read. When I sat down into my seat, I was in a state of disbelief. They were so close to me: real, flesh and blood, Olympians. The fact that the two groups of women assembled were representing their countries, that the competition was the most respected and admired worldwide, and that each group was selected with so much care and competition in their home countries, all raced through my mind as I took my seat.

With my rediscovered trust and good sentiment towards China, I cheered for the home team without inhibition. All around me, I felt enveloped by a passion that was tangible. The gestures and chants coming from Chinese fans were so heartfelt, so adrenalized. China was down by a few points going into the 4th quarter, and I would estimate that more than 95% of the supporters in the stadium were upset by this. The cheering thus intensified accordingly. As the 4th quarter slowly wound down, China, led by there loud and encouraging fans, made a remarkable comeback. Spain was clearly thrown off of their game by the level of intensity of the Chinese players and fans combined. As the final seconds ticked off the clock, Spain missed a crucial shot, and gave the win to China. The stadium erupted, with literally everyone getting out of their seats to give an ear-piercing ovation.

Returning home later that night, I could still feel that energy, that raw excitement. As a young athlete I had always dreamed of Olympic competition, of playing hockey in the winter games. I imagined that the level of pride and exhilaration found in representing one's country in a sport would be unmatchable. I envisioned a type of competition that would supersede all other sports matches, a level of intensity that could not be found anywhere else. As the buzzer went off to mark the end of my first Olympic event, I found that all of what I had thought about the Olympics was true, and then some.

Rediscovering my Nest

As the the chinese and english countdown wound down to zero, Beijing lit up with excitement. The fireworks exploded from the Bird's Nest in the north of the city, all the way down the north-south axis. Most of Beijing's historic sites are found along the north-south axis, and thus Gulou tower, Jingshan Park, the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, and the Temple of Heaven, were all illuminated with dazzling fireworks. The show itself was nothing short of spectacular.

I certainly agree that it was a beautiful ceremony, a performance that I will have trouble forgetting. I spent the nearly four hours of the opening ceremony watching a huge projector screen at the top floor of a high rise in central Beijing. The human precision and absolute enormity of the display made it truly extraordinary. However, watching the thousands of men in white robes making different mass shapes, I couldn't help but have other, perhaps conflicting, feelings. Yes, it was beautiful, but I know I am not alone in finding it a bit terrifying. Having never formally studied Chinese history, I'm sure that many components of the show were obscured, making the ceremony even more impressive, yet mysterious. The perfection at times had an adverse effect for me. I've never seen a show of such scale, a production that required so much preparation in order to be executed. As these Olympics have been incredibly politicized, I couldn't help but feel some degree of instinctive concern.

The next morning, waking up in an active Olympic host city, I jump started my day with that same adrenaline and drive I've spoken about in previous posts. I spent the day talking to Chinese friends, almost invariably talking about Olympic related topics. Each person I talked to had something different and unique to say about the Opening Ceremony. Some were upset at how certain historical representations were made, others were complaining at how last it had lasted, while another person thought it was upsetting to see how ethnic minorities were presented in the production. Most though had found there own little treasures in the show, their own personal reasons why they loved it. Their reasons varied greatly. Far from the threatening homogeneity I had felt the night before, in the people I talked to, I found diversity of thought and opinion. I saw a peaceful, welcoming China: a China that was composed of unique and beautiful people, not the faceless mass that had disillusioned me the night before.

Thinking back upon it, the Opening Ceremonies was the first time I ever saw China in its role as the world leader it is. It's the first time that my experience here was been directly linked to my family and friend's lives back home (they were all obviously watching the ceremony). Observing China in this new context, with the grandeur and scale of the show, temporarily blurred the otherwise lucid feelings and understandings I have with regards to this country.

I am now more convinced than ever of the importance of continuing learning about China, of making myself a home in this beautiful country. The unknown will always appear estranged and threatening, until we muster up the courage to experience it and become familiar with it.

08-08-08

At the break of dawn, I pealed my eyes open to the sound of my alarm. I had slept for a mere four hours. As my consciousness surfaced, I shot up out of bed with the zing of a little kid getting up on Christmas morning. When I first came to Beijing, I took a picture of the Olympic countdown clock at Tian'an'men Square. It read 794 days. At that point, being in Beijing and learning about its people and culture, 794 days felt like an eternity. I was wrapping up my year abroad in China, and I had no idea if I'd ever be able to come back to the Middle Kingdom, or whether I'd be able to be here for the Olympics. All I knew for certain was that the country I was studying in was having an enormous impact on me, that upon returning to the west, I would be a changed person. I had grown to love a way of life that greatly differed from the way I had grown up.

Since that May day in 2006, much has been said and done regarding the 2008 Olympic games and China's role in the world in general. International criticism has been abound. Among individuals, there has been a good deal of protest towards China's hosting the esteemed international competition. A number of my friends have even decided to boycott the games, refusing to watch them on television. While I agree with them that much is wrong with China today, I don't feel like condemning the Beijing Olympics will help the country progress and develop a more responsive and humanitarian government. Chinese government is constantly self-analizing, considering how to create positive reform without risking losing the masses. The seeds of the democratic way are being planted by national government at the local and municipal level, albeit slowly. Recently, the passing of the Law on the Organization of Villagers' Committee and the Law on the Organization of Urban Neighborhood Committees has helped empower people to make decisions on village and neighborhood affairs. I have faith that reform is coming.

There is only one thing I know for certain about Chinese reform though: that it will not occur overnight. Zhou Enlai, perhaps the most loved political figure in 20th century Chinese history, was said to have responded that "It is too early to say" when he was asked for his assessment of the 1789 French Revolution. It is indeed possible that the Olympics themselves will temporarily halt or slow down the reform process. The pre-Olympic crackdown on freedoms has certainly been well-publicized enough. But in the long run, the Olympics will help China become aware of and integrate western ideas and influences both into their individual minds and into their political system. The Olympics have caused the amount of foreigners visiting or studying in China to skyrocket in the past 7 years. They have helped bring investment and spark growth. Perhaps most importantly they have confirmed the reality that China is now serving as a world leader. Once it becomes more comfortable and secure with this status, it will become easier for China to take on the responsibility and roles that come along with it.

Scrambling out of bed, I threw on some clothes and raced to meet one of my Chinese friends. We had agreed to meet at Jingshan Park at 6:30 to climb the mountain and look upon Beijing on the long-awaited 08-08-08. As we climbed the mountain, there was an excitement that was tangible. In all the eyes I met, I could read the excitement and warm welcome I was being granted. Reaching the top, my friend and I rested at a bench with two old Chinese men. I asked them how they were feeling about the Olympics. The one who answered said, full of emotion, that it had finally come, that it was at last arriving. He spoke of his anticipation over the years since 2001, and how he was going to feel tonight during the Opening ceremonies. The other man simply nodded profusely, swinging his arms with the youthfulness and excitement of a sports pre-game warmup. Their enthusiasm made me even more excited for the next few weeks, and even more optimistic for the great country I have come to love.

Serving for the Future

One day until the Opening Ceremonies!!! The excitement in Beijing is palpable. When I exit my apartment gate in the morning, until when I come home at night, everything I take in seems to be in some way related to the Olympics. Everything from the lamp posts, to the subway walls, to the clothes people are wearing, all have to do with the Olympics. While clothing and advertisements certainly present some degree of commitment to the Olympics, I've been most impressed by the volunteers that seem to be just about everywhere. You can't walk down a street or hutong without encountering one, and having them look your way to see if you need any help.

While volunteerism is a huge part of American culture, it's development in modern China has been inhibited by a variety of factors. NGO's have traditionally had difficulty establishing themselves in China, while the public culture has yet to develop to the point where those who might volunteer are aware of opportunities. Furthermore, simple lack of issue awareness is something that cannot be overlooked.

The Olympics seems to be creating an infrastructure for volunteerism where it may have lacked before. With half a million total volunteers on duty this month, this will leave Beijing a much changed place after the Olympics. The Olympic Volunteers Project, a USD 1.4 million government initiative, is set to continue one until 2010. This certainly could propel volunteerism to the public forefront.

Last night I had dinner with a group of four Chinese Olympic volunteers. They were from a variety of different places, only one of them from Beijing. They had sacrificed their entire summers to undergo the training program for the upcoming August games. As we all ate dinner together, we talked about a global issues, from China's international image, to the US sub-prime mortgage crisis. They all had really thoughtful and intelligent perspectives. I found out that they also participated in their schools Model United Nations, and enjoyed doing a whole list of other extra-curricular activities. They certainly broke my stereotype of the Chinese bookworm who can only do well on tests. Talking at dinner, I couldn't help be see much commonality between myself and them.

These university students will lead China into the future. They are full of enthusiasm, curiosity, and perhaps most importantly, knowledge. Putting these three traits together, I can't help but see a good future for this country.

Angelic Art

When I first came to Beijing in 2006 to attend a Model United Nations conference with my Chinese high school at Peking University, the one tourist destination we chose to visit was the Summer Palace (Yiheyuan). Our on-campus hotel was in close proximity to the park and thus, one afternoon, our group ventured off to the Palace. Walking around Kunming Lake, I remember feeling greatly disappointed. None of the major sites were open, while Longevity Hill was also closed for construction.

Yesterday, accompanied by two international friends, I decided to give it another chance. Am I ever thankful that I decided to do so! Walking up the mountain, I drifted in and out of different buildings, creeping up to the peak of what once represented imperial grandeur. Walking around the lake, I was blown away by different paintings that furbished the various gates, panels, and benches. The precision was absolutely astounding. Oh, what it would have been like to be a Chinese emperor!

Back in Dongcheng (the neighborhood in which I live), with aesthetic beauty and art fresh in my mind, I randomly encountered a Chinese artist. Hitting it off over a bowl of steaming jiaozi, we talked about being an artist in the 21st century. Coming from a family with two artist parents, I'm very aware of the politics and guanxi (connections) that dominate today's art world. Only a tiny percentage of artists today dominate the market, reaping absurd profits, and leaving countless skilled and passionate artists behind.

Leaving the dumpling joint behind, the Beijing artist, who calls himself Angel, beckoned me to come to his house and hang out. Not one to turn down adventure, I followed him a couple of blocks into his winding siheyuan. As we got deeper and deeper into the hutong, it was as if we were walking through an enormous labyrinth. Finally coming to his abode, I feigned normality: it was the smallest home I had ever seen. The size of my closet back home, we struggled to both sit down in the little open space. The only articles in the apartment were his art supplies, and his art. One after another, he unraveled paintings that left me completely speechless. My favorite was of a young Chinese woman, sprawled comfortable out on a couch. She was an image of perfection. Her soft cheeks melted into a delicate, lithe core, which flowed smoothly into two calmly folded legs. The couch she sat on blended into a scene of nature, with tree roots, dark skies, and eeriness surrounding her. He told me that the scene represented the girl being unconsciously corrupted by a force, perhaps greed, that was omnipresent. Unaware, she was drifting further and further away from her purity, from her "xin" (heart).

I left Angel's "home" in deep thought. Why is someone clearly as talented and passionate as he forced to live such a difficult life? Will he continue to make his art if he doesn't get the support he needs? If a system isn't in place to support and nurture the creation of art (lack of intellectual property protection), how can individuals and society innovate and progress? These questions and others crossed my mind as I walked home. Angel showed me a lifestyle that was so different from the plush galleries at 798 or Moganshan art districts. Angel's art and way of life seemed infinitely more authentic, his commitment infinitely more profound. He spoke of his art as if it were a part of himself. In Angel, I found not only a friend, but a role model.