CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF SOME KIND

Dear god, I need more male contact. It’s not that I’m kept from men but more that they are kept from me. I’m accustomed to lots of (gay) male friends that I can flirt with and touch as I please, even snog on occasion. I’m accustomed to molesting my friends to the point where my friends who will not be touched by anyone else have no problem with a full-body hug (replete with leg wrapping) from me. I love physical comedy and humor and pushing and generally having a roughhousing-good time. I’m a physical woman and I need my regular dose of testosterone or I get antsy.

I’m getting antsy.

In normal, day-to-day routine, no male too old to attend primary school is supposed to touch me. If a man wants to do something that might involve touching me he must first clear it with a third party. Barring a present boyfriend/ husband/ father/ brother/ son sort of male who has implied ownership of me, he must ask either a chaperone I have deemed worthy (usually my immediate boss or my beloved colleague; they are my surrogate older brothers) or my close girlfriends for levels of propriety, he must discuss the aspects of the interaction with said third party and then finally, he must have said third party act as a proxy to clear it with me. The two caveats to that are an official attempting to shake my hand in a let’s-comfort-the-foreign-girl-with-her-customs sort of way (which, ironically, only ends up unnerving me because the Chinese are not accustom to a strong handshake and so you end up with a dead-fish handshake) or in the his-job-demands-it sort of way. Only to add to my confusion, women are allowed to touch me to the extent and extensive period of time that makes even me a bit uncomfortable.

Because sex is not supposed to exist in the highest populated country in the world, the act of the second caveat often comes off a bit like overcompensation, if merely only by virtue of my own projection. I’ve had tech guys messing with cables near my feet and, in an attempt to keep me comfortable, they asked me not to get up. The only issue with that is, as they’re reaching blindly for the cord, their head is almost in my crotch. I’m uncomfortable with that. They approach it with the same, “is this the 15th or 16th one I’ve done this morning,” gentle blasÈ as my Planned Parenthood gynecologist approaches my cervix during my annual pelvic exam. At first I thought it merely a ruse to get their face in my nether region and they were in possession of some seriously good poker faces but then I’ve seen them do some facsimile with many other teachers, both male and female. I later learned about how important the privilege to work is (it is granted by the government) and how to abuse their position (especially) like that would be to akin to signing up to starve your family for the next few years as all work privileges would be revoked and there is no such thing as “Social Services” or “Welfare” in China. They may have my warm thigh millimeters from one ear but the other ear has the cold barrel of a gun firmly pressed against it.

Regardless, I am still unable to rectify how it is that the men here maintain such high levels of chivalry (they would NEVER go through a door first), never forget you are a woman who needs to hear how lovely she is (men notice changes in me that I don’t even notice; if I chose to throw on a different scarf, they compliment it and compare it to the scarf I was wearing previously) and yet still completely obliterate sexuality from the moment, especially the moments when the slightest twitch would give the gentleman fixing my computer a face full of what male artists throughout the centuries have deemed “The Origin of the Universe.”

All this sexual neglect aside, today (10/28) was “Picture Day.” The only thing I hate more than the thought of a “Day” of “Pictures” is a SATURDAY of “Pictures” for WORK. It was yet another weekend spent in the company of the Kindergarten, Primary and Middle/High School teachers as well as the staff. Don’t get me wrong, I really love my colleagues, it’s the “work” and “photo” pieces I’m not so fond of. The official nature of it coupled with the ceremony piece suddenly changes me from “me” to the Jolie/Pitt kid. At least I was told to wear a suit today. Normally, I’m given the completely wrong directions for my attire so I end up dressed the polar opposite of everyone else. Today I was only given mildly incorrect directions for my attire. So, I wore my suit (it is a pantsuit) and, of course, only the men wore the pantsuit. Keep in mind I’ve never seen the skirt-suit option on a female colleague before; they all stick with the pantsuit option when they must wear their suit in day-to-day activities. All the women had a skirt suit with heels. Now, I made the conscious decision not to pack any of my heeled shoes when I came to China because I didn’t want to tower over people anymore than I already had to. I was fine with the decision to go with sensible flats but nothing makes you feel less sexy than being in a flood of petite, Asian beauties all giggling and happy about their latest glittery shoe and you’re waddling about in a comfy loafer. I felt like Porky Pig in a sea of Charlie’s Angels. The fact that Goliath had a behemoth zit on her chin did not help.

We also spent the day filed by height and I was, of course, the first of all the ladies and taller than most of the men. On occasion, the line of men behind me would break into murmuring punctuated with “…stina,” “Foreigner [in Chinese… it sounds like “Lo Y”; I recognize the sound but cannot spell the word]” or “Mguaren.” I would turn around reflexively (the Chinese are too shy to straight out approach me regarding questions they have so they talk amongst themselves, consequently, I have grown accustomed to making myself available when any of those three words are uttered) and the full-grown men would burst into schoolboy giggles, blush and wave to me to say “Hello” and then wave me off in a shy gesture of ‘never mind.’ Next to me in line was a lovely woman who adores using English but she likes to say things like, “I am tall but you are tallest. I am tall and slim but you are tall and fat.” But then, she waxes poetic about my great beauty and if she were a man, she’d kiss me. (I’ve played that “If I were a man I’d kiss you game” with lots of Chinese women. They tell me they’d kiss me and I tell them I’d marry them or kiss them back or some such thing. She’s the first I believe might not wait until she’s a man. It’s sweet if but a little unsettling, as she’s got the misguided sexual energy of someone unclear about their own boundaries. I have been the catalyst for a great number of women to come out but the last thing I need is to start helping women realize their forbidden sexuality here in China.) Frankly, the only qualifier I want to hear before, “I’d kiss you” is Alpha Hottie explaining, “If we were alone.” I can and would do something about that qualifier.

Nevertheless, we spent the day getting into lines and then divvying back up again in order to take our picture. Lots of the down time was spent with the women piling up on to one another and giggling and snapping away with their own cameras. The men all hung back, snapped photos of us and snapped a few of each other. As they joyfully watched the women be silly and feminine in delightfully trite ways, I sadly recall a New York Times article I recently read that said because of the one child limit and the resulting jettison of the “less desirable” girl children, my generation is one of the first where there are overwhelming numbers of men and very few women. I’ve heard stories that of shantytown cities of men unable to find a wife are being raised and sealed off like the Favelas of Brazil because of the resulting unmanageable violence and substance abuse. In the misogynistic, arrogant equivalence of stripping the Titanic of most lifeboats for esthetic reasons, methinks the Chinese have forced the inevitable Feminist Movement. To quite literally add insult to injury, Chinese women of my generation find Nordic men far more appealing than Chinese men because the women find them more handsome, worldly and wealthy. Make no mistake about it, women of my generation have the upper hand and I suspect my generation will become known as the antithesis to the “Baby Boomers”; something like the “Shrinky Dinkers.” It would appear that the movement is shifting towards a full rejection of “home” as my feminine counterparts seem more interested in shopping than children or living in the trap they see their mother’s role as “mother” to be. In lieu of “redefinition” and progress it would appear my generation’s women have chosen “avoidance.” Men long trained in caring for a woman in the traditional sense are now facing the terrifying fact that “chivalry” will not be enough. There are simply not enough women to go around and as the law of “supply and demand” dictates, the price of a woman has shot way the fuck up. It seems a sad waste of a bargaining chip for the women to simply walk away from the inevitable but I guess that’s the sort of revolution it takes to get the ball rolling.

Sexual politic aside, all the women wanted pictures with me and so I went through just about every female teacher and combination of female teachers possible. After all, Madison Avenue has not done its job until everyone on the planet wants my pasty skin, wide and blue eyes, fly-away hair and Northern European height. Then the English department got together and everyone rallied around me for photos.
At one point, my colleague (the one too beautiful for her own good) came up to me and said, “Do you see the four men over there?” I looked to where she was pointing and I saw four teachers I’ve never seen before.

“Yes, over there?” I said, confirming.

“Yes, they want to take a closed picture with you.” She said seriously, like negotiating a contract.

“A closed picture?”

“Yes, a closed picture. Just you and them. They want to stand near you when they take a picture.”

I stalled out for a moment, confused as to why anyone would need to specify this sort of picture much less why she wouldn’t just say, “They want to take a picture with you.” Frankly, no one just wants to take a picture “of” me, they all want a picture “with” me so she could have even said, “They want to take a picture.” (I’m a lot like the La Jaconda [aka “The Mona Lisa”] in that everyone wants a picture with the white girl because of her hype but when hard pressed, no one could tell you what her real name is much less pick her out of a crowd of look-alikes or even elucidate why she is so valuable.) I furrowed my brow and shook my head in confusion as I tried to figure out if there was something more I was missing.
She took this as a cue that I would some how be displeased by the notion of taking on four men at once. Frankly, um, in this state… never mind. Anyway, she called over my beloved colleague and asked him if it was okay that I take a picture with four gentlemen.

Unfortunately, my beloved colleague’s presence further confused me and my brow got more furrowed. Why are we suddenly making a federal case out of a simple picture? He explained to me that the gentlemen were very nice and polite and they wanted to know if they might have a picture.

“Of course!” I exclaimed, “But I… I don’t understand why they have to ask.”

My beloved colleague looked at me from behind the mask as he tried to think of an appropriate answer. “Chivalry.” I smiled deeply at this. I had taught my beloved colleague the word “chivalry” earlier that week and he very much liked it. It had come up because, as he ushered me through the door first for the millionth time, he said, “Ladies first.” He then stopped himself, smiling and said, “But there is another saying, ‘First come, first serve.’ Sometimes, they stop each other. Which wins?”

“In America, ‘First come, first serve’ wins. Chivalry is dead in America,” I informed him. After all, the reason I always wait to be ushered through a door is to see if there is ever a man who will refuse to go through before me and I have met a total of five American men who will not go through before me; one is one of my brothers and the other four were intent on getting me into bed, ceasing their masquerade when they had an answer. I started this cultural observation when I was 12 years old (something about my parents’ divorce triggered a need to believe that romance wasn’t dead) and in the interim, I have worked at companies as varied as The Union Bank of Switzerland (UBS) to The Salvation Army and lived in cities as varied as Portland, Oregon and NYC. Canadians, Europeans, Africans, South Americans and Asians all have a firm grasp on the rules of chivalry. Chivalry in America has gone the way of Small Pox in America and I am unclear when the vaccine for either went out.

From there, my beloved colleague asked what chivalry was and I explained it is a man’s duty to take care of women. He liked that very much and, frankly, I thought it was the most appropriate lesson I have or will ever teach.

So, as I smiled today, he stood there watching at me in the sun momentarily pausing behind the mask. He smiled back and then laughed his joyful laugh, proud of his recall. I couldn’t help but laugh too. Such a lovely gentleman he is.

My two chaperones escorted me to the young men who wanted to take their picture with me and we took our pictures. The young men were nervous and giggling their way through the whole shoot. One man had the courage to put an arm around me but the other one flanking me did not. So, I took it upon myself to put my arm around him and he instantly wrapped a shy, limp arm around me. It was unique to have a stranger reach to hold me emphatically (as was appropriate for the moment) and then rethink upon contact to merely, lightly rest his arm around my lower back. I must say, it’s surreal being a celebrity when you never pursued idolatry in the first place.

I long for the intimate bravado and courage of Alpha Hottie in his environment. Dear god, I have a brief, three-word conversation with the man for five seconds and I can’t stop thinking about him. I am distracted by nothing, simply in the “flow” when teaching and yet, when he walks by the class, I lose all train of thought. Unlike the men holding me in the “close” photo, Alpha Hottie is not afraid of me. He’s respectful of the rules of propriety around me but only in so far as I am a woman; no extra consideration (read: fear) is given to my race. Free from the paternalistic eyes of our mutual bosses, he treats me like a human being and a cute human being at that. I like to imagine him the kind of man who does need permission but instead assumes consent until you vocalize to the contrary; my kind of man. My sad, pathetic, affection famine has even gone so far as to strike me with jealousy toward my female colleague who sits with me at lunch because he’s started saying “hello” and “goodbye” to her of his own volition. “Why won’t he say anything to me?” I whine crankily in my head. And today is no different; he talked to all the women we have in common during the photo shoot. He talks to everyone but me. I am riddled with reflexive jealousy coated in a thick, candy shell of embarrassment over my infantile, mental whining.

Apparently, if you take away my ability to get laid, I become an insecure, spoiled 7-year old replete with mental stomping and arm flailing.

Once the official photo-taking marathon was over and I had chatted with a newfound girlfriend (she and I have a real kinship; it’s not merely the phenomenon of female kindness coupled with arm’s-length/look-at-my-new-trinket studying) about the East versus West values of good-looking men (by Eastern standards the best looking man in school looks unsettlingly like my younger brother the way Sean looks unsettlingly like John Lennon and I pegged the Western notion of good-looking men, while mentioning that I thought Alpha Hottie was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen; here’s to hoping the grapevine works, eh? “Do you like me? Check one: YES NO MAYBE”), my department had to take more photos with the officials of the school. Apparently, more than math or science, English is the selling point of a privatized Chinese education nowadays. Like I said, once the Yuan is competitive with the dollar, China will need us for nothing.

As our department was hanging around awaiting the arrival of officials for more pictures, the beautiful young woman too beautiful for her own good was doing everything she could to suck up every last ounce of attention. I mean, she’s usually flailing about like a failed diva but she seemed to be on overdrive. Regardless, I wasn’t about to ask why. However, my newfound girlfriend (who is also in my department but has an office far, far away) informed me of the topic of conversation amongst my fellow department members.

Apparently, the topic of conversation was my great beauty, for reasons I cannot even begin to comprehend. Whether or not I am beautiful is neither here nor there and ultimately none of my business but why on earth are they still discussing it months after my arrival? I am fortunate enough to (currently) have (relative) symmetry and my eyes are blue/green, not brown. Really. That’s it. How do you get MONTHS of conversation out of that? Regardless, I found the discussion interesting (not for the topic) but to watch the beautiful girl. I was reminded of the fact that all the female English teachers have scolded me about how I came to China with “many things, too much, much too much. Why so many things? You have so many things. Things. Too many things.” (For the record, I had 3 half-filled suitcases to move to abroad for work and play indefinitely.) The beautiful girl was the only person they have contact with who could have told them that highly judgmental thing about me. Consequently, I found it interesting to watch her while the entire department simply discussed my beauty. Some things about grade school never die.

The beautiful girl, clearly threatened by this all, was chatting away and pointing out her shoes, her dress, her hair and discussing them all at full volume. It was made remarkably clear to me just how small her world must be and how much smaller she wants to keep it. She looked not unlike a small, petulant child blocking out the news she does not want by drowning herself in the minutia of her pretty new dress. Upon such mature, insightful behavior, I am reminded of the Chinese slang term for an externally beautiful woman who has very little going on upstairs; “vase; beautiful on the outside but empty on the inside.” The rest of the department however was staring at me and chatting amongst themselves, paying her mini tantrum no mind. I had a brief flash of the every-child in a store that has grown too tired and is tugging on mommy’s clothes saying “Mommy” ad nausium while mother notices nothing and continues her conversation. It’s sad that a woman with such potential would be so easily dissuaded from expanding her world.

As rapid fire Mandarin is still not my forte and my own incurable insecurities about my appearance are too easily triggered, I decided I didn’t really want to work on my vocabulary so I checked out.

Just as I check out, my Chinese Angel/newfound Chinese girlfriend does her best secretive look and the subtle eye shift to see if I’ve understood what was just said. The more nuanced teachers here have picked up on the fact that my Chinese is increasing by leaps and bounds and so the language is fast losing its “speaking in code” quality. However, as those walls get torn down, I am further reassured that there is nothing two-faced going on and the people I work with are genuinely as they appear; for the (overwhelmingly) most part, unbelievably kind and thoughtful. I shake my head to say “No.” My Chinese Angel looked at me and translated under her breath, “He [head nod towards my beloved colleague] said you are dull.”

“Dull?” I asked, equally hushed. When the Chinese mutter to me subtly, they often end up enunciating words they didn’t mean as well as removing articles (“the” or “a”) that might clue you in to said enunciation error. Also, it didn’t make sense that my favorite person in China who has always been so nice to me, confides in me about things even of a personal nature and is often seeking out my advice would think me dull. Not to mention, of the seemingly infinite number of critical words others feel apply to me that have been either said to my face at full volume or whispered behind my back, I can assure you “dull” has never come up. I’m pretty confident most people find me to be many things but the general consensus seems to not be “dull.” Consequently, “dull” could have been any noun or verb that may or may not exist starting with “d” or “t” that has a middle possessing no long “i” or long “a” and an ending of “r,” or “l.”

“D-o-l-l. You are too beautiful to be real. Like doll.”

It was the first time I have ever been rendered utterly speechless with a compliment based solely on my esthetic. I was without capacity for even a, “Thank you.” Consequently, this is where I leave you.