SPLINTERS

When things in my life become irrevocably damaged, I hear the sound of splintering glass. I hear that incredibly slow moment as the first cracks begin to appear and you can do nothing but watch the opaque lines race back and forth across the solid air as tiny, deadly clouds of broken glass are emitted into the air. The sound of splintering glass is not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard, only more precise. When I hear that sound, I know it is merely a matter of time before things come cascading down in brittle piles of crystalline, razor-sharp savagery.

Of late, my Brazilian Angel has been emitting that noise when she speaks. At first I tried to ignore it but it’s becoming louder and louder and I don’t know that it’s safe to ignore it anymore.

She first began emitting it when she told me how excited she was to be possibly returning to the small town in China where she and le Francais were living before. She eagerly told me of the minutia of living in the small town where everything was right at her fingertips and how she never needed to leave home to get anything. Every morning begins with massage sessions at either her house or the house of one of her (it goes without saying "Western") friends. They have their morning gossip and massages in the house’s spa as they try to figure out what to have the cook make for dinner that night and where to shop after the menu issues have been sorted out.

It’s not that she lives that kind of life in the other city, it’s the excitement with which she can barely contain herself at the thought of shrugging off the difficulty of the hard living here to return to true civility. She talks constantly about all the friends she’s going to see again and all the wonderful shops she’s going to visit. She talks about how rough it is to work live here and how she can’t wait to escape it all. I suspect it’s overcompensation at the thought of returning to a serious(ly gilded) cage but as I’m not her therapist, I’m certainly not interested in working with her to unpack that.

Nonetheless, it’s a side of her I’ve never seen before and it’s rubbing me in all the wrong ways. I try to be supportive and listen to her but the lifestyle makes me want to gag and I genuinely have nothing to add to a world where the greatest flaw of a woman is baring her tube-sock-like breasts during her daily massage party in a country where the only drinkable water must be shipped in. Frankly, I remember when we first met, she begged me to help her find work as a teacher so she could have an identity of her own and now she can’t degrade her work fast or hard enough.

To top it off, she’s now taken to telling me how I must conduct myself. She explains how I must behave around other people and I’m left to wonder how it is that she would understand how I must conduct myself around my friends better than I would. I have introduced her to my Chinese Angel, who was put off by her loud, sexually based conversation.

"Chris, you really must speak slower around your friends. They don’t understand a word that comes out of your mouth. Your friend at dinner last night was positively stunned at how fast you spoke. Did you see the look on her face? She had no idea what you were saying."

Actually, I had seen all the numerous looks on her face and they had nothing to do with my behavior. However, as there was nowhere to go with that question but a fight that would resolve nothing, I nodded and smiled tightly.

And then last night (12/2), West Egg had it annual Christmas Dinner at the Sheraton in South of Xi’An. I made the conscious decision to let bygones be bygones and have a good time. Isn’t that what the Holiday Season is about in the beginning?

We got to the extravagant Sheraton and were immediately served mulled wine and escorted into the packed front hall. Spectators had collected to watch the caroling. There was a small Chinese gentleman dressed as Santa, countless waitress dressed as Mrs. Claus and lots of small children dressed as a Christmas choir. I mingled with a few of the business people and was introduced to many more new people. I rubbed elbows with Chinese people just off the street as well as captains of industry.

I was finally introduced to one Australian man. Well, actually, not "introduced to" so much as "accosted by." Clearly having had his fill of the mulled spirits, he launched his meaty hand towards me, "And you would be?"

I took his hand and shook it firmly, not wanting to appear demure or "wilting flower" at all. "Hello. Christina."

"Oh, you’re Australian." He stated proudly at the top of his lungs.

Everyone else around us already knew me and as I’m known as "Christina, the New Yorker," we were all bewildered.

"Why is she Australian?" My fellow American asked.

"Because all the attractive people come from Australia."

I smiled politely. "Thank you but I’m from New York."

"Bah!" He dismissed it.

"And what do you do?" He pushed on.

"I’m a teacher." I answered and watched his face fall. You could actually feel the group grow tense and suddenly their circle of tension seemed to tighten around my neck. I wanted to turn to everyone and say, "It’s Christmas. Lighten the fuck up."

The drunk Australian captain of industry looked me up and down, sighed, rolled his eyes and said, "I could have guessed that." And I heard the entire circle of formerly jovial people mentally gasp. "I used to be an English teacher too but then I got truly educated and now I’m in manufacturing."

"And now you drink yourself silly while your wife’s away so you can work up the nerve to hit on strange young women at Christmas parties. In other words fuck you too." I thought. However, hearing the uncomfortable shifting and coughing of our fellow partygoers, I knew I needed to take the high road. I smiled genuinely and spoke the most innocent, backhanded compliment I could come up with, "And that seems to have worked out wonderfully for you so congratulations"

Crestfallen, he nodded and then left our group.

While I am happy with my ability to have managed a very civil, "Go fuck yourself you rickety old bastard" such a confrontation put me in a foul mood. Essentially, he named the elephant in the room that seems to follow me around West Egg. I neither want nor need anyone’s pity but as my company is apparently more entertaining than my unfortunate employment is damaging, I am allowed entrance to the exclusive enclave of an "Open to the Public Caroling Session."

I went outside for a breather, desperate for company that would just be with me. Alas there was none to be had, so I went back in and found the people I knew.

We then went up to dinner. As my Brazilian Angel was heading up the stairs with me and we were all conversing in French (there were for French present in our group than not, so we went with French) I was asked by several of the unknown Frenchies where I was from. "Obviously, I’m an American English teacher." I answered in French as everyone nodded confused.

"Why ‘obviously’?" My Brazilian Angel asked.

"Look at me." I said and my Brazilian Angel.

"I don’t understand."

"I don’t know either but there was a gentleman earlier who only looked at me and then said he could have guessed I was an American English teacher." I said.

"Oh, well, yes. Obviously it’s the glasses." My Brazilian Angel explained with the last answer I wanted to hear.

I’ve got the rectangular glasses every New York pseudo-intellectual wears as a badge of honor that screams; I know nothing of Versace but I know everything Marc Jacobs and Goethe have ever produced. They are the very same glasses that say, "I speak French, own an Apple computer and understand the difference between a ‘misto’ and an ‘espresso’." in New York.

However, in Xi’An, they symbolize the "English Teacher." There are three types of Western women here: 1. The Company Wife (my company for the evening), 2. The English Teacher (me) and 3. The Student (Company Wives in training last night).

I didn’t want to make any more drama. I just wanted to have a nice dinner and now I realize I’ve got the scarlet "E.T." slapped on my face. Just as my stomach begins to sink at the thought of a whole night sticking out, the lovely English gentleman who wrote me the less-than-lovely email finds me, calls me out by name and makes the extra effort to say hello. In summation, I stick out, I insight drunken men to start fights and now I am to be patronized.

I sat down at my table and started to drink. I did not drink heavily, but enough to take the edge off my volleyball injuries and the discomfort of being the social reject. The lovely French gentleman sitting to my right (my Brazilian Angel to my left) and I had a long conversation about art and work and life. It was truly lovely and he was charming; without an ounce of patronage. His girlfriend, a Chinese woman eager to work on her English talked with me too.

As the event was to be a formal occasion, all the wait staff was dressed in tuxedoes and white gloves. They all spoke English with absolutely no expectation Chinese would ever come up. I’m not unsettled by the idea that I would have been in over my head and need the kindness of strangers to help me sort out what I need with my minimal Chinese in CHINA. What I am unsettled by is the notion that in CHINA it would ever be acceptable for me to get upset with a CHINESE person for not speaking ENGLISH fluently. How lazy must Westerners be if they come to another country and not only make no effort to speak the language or no apology for not but that it is EXPECTED for the native people to meet the visitors on their terms?

One of the wait staff assigned to our table came around asking what we all wanted to drink aside from the red wine. As he asked me, I answered with the Mandarin word for water. (It sounds like "Sway" but with an "Sh" at the start, not just an "S"; "Shway")

He looked at me, confused. His face registered the same blankness of my students when I say a word in Chinese and they try to figure it out in English.

"Water" I said, smiling, knowing that he was trying figure out what English word was "Shway."

He looked at me, blinked, understood what just happened and laughed. Smiling, he hurried to get me water.

He poured me water and I thanked him in Chinese.

For the rest of the night, I had my own personal wait staff.

I must say, at the stage of my life, I am always a little amazed at the people who have no idea how to handle wait staff properly. I never understand how it is that people either fully ignore the human being handling them/ become belligerent or completely overcompensate by turning the wait staff into their new best friend. In other words, some dude or dudette whose just trying to do their job must deal with your crap by feeling ignored/ shit on or compromised into being your buddy. Frankly, if they want to hang out with you, they’ll deal with it after the soiree.

Ignoring/ being belligerent to wait staff is bad but I think trying to turn them into your buddy is worse. They’re being paid to be around you. They can’t reject you. Their job depends on making you happy. And, you’re ignoring the glaring fact that you’re not one of them. I don’t care how much guilt you carry about your money, you will never belong with them in that setting. Nevertheless, my Brazilian Angel insisted upon pulling each wait staff person down to our table to chat with her, trade phone numbers and generally socialize even though several of them tried to beg off politely claim they had work to do.

Eventually dinner let up and the entertainment portion of the evening began. The whole night we had had two Philippino women and a man singing Christmas carols to the standard party pop song renditions. However, they soon began to play samba music and several people got up to dance.

I would have danced but my legs are in such pain from the four hours of volleyball I played that there was no way that was going to happen. So I hung back and watched, thoroughly entertained by the lovely ladies and the middle aged white guys shaking a tail feather. It was the best part of my evening.

Later there was a raffle to see how much money could be raised to help an impoverished school here in China. The goal was to raise 1,000 Yuan. In a room full of wealthy businessmen, the goal was less than a fifth of my monthly salary. It was ridiculous. Disappointingly enough, they had a hard time raising the 1,000 Yuan and it wasn’t until a table of five twenty-something single men pooled their resources and came up with the cash together that the 1,000 Yuan was raised. Frankly, if you can’t spare some of your extravagant wealth for impoverished children in China at Christmas, where the fuck is your heart?

So, they raised the 1,000 and then tried to raise more. As they were trying to raise more, they started to raffle of songs. You would be serenaded by the staff and the lovely English gentleman for 100 Yuan. No one paid them any mind and just kept drinking and socializing.

Pissed off, I opened my wallet. I happened to have over 1,000 Yuan on me last night and so I decided to show them all up. As the guy going table to table came to my table, I fanned out my grand said, "1,000." Everyone at my table saw me pitch in my money and they all opened their wallets and pitched in a few hundred a piece. If the pathetic "English Teacher" can spare a grand, the captains of industry can at least spare 100.

My 1,000 bought me a rendition of "You are so beautiful" sung by the Englishman, some of his colleagues and the staff of the hotel. I had been hoping for something silly, like Rod Stewart’s "Do you think I’m sexy" but my gesture seemed to inspire a certain amount of earnestness.

After the singing portion of the evening, my Brazilian Angel then set about insisting that she get a job at the hotel. She told all her friends (who were waiting on us) that she didn’t care if it was just one hour a week but that she wanted to work in the hotel. She was just as desperate for work in the hotel as she had been when she begged me for a job at a school.

As I sat there, tuning out her pleading I noticed one of the twenty-something guys at the table to have collected the first 1,000 was making no secret of watching me. Under normal circumstances, I would have been flattered to the point of embarrassment to have such a good looking man watching me but considering my treatment that evening by people who couldn’t be bothered to share their wealth, I was left to think, "Oh honey, don’t even bother." I am so very much not a part of the world he is and the notion that he would want to save me, as seems to be the general theme of the relationships in that room (his money saved her from a life of completion and her company saved him from a life of isolation), was beyond unappealing. Apart my intermittent crankiness, I am content with my life. I don’t belong with that world of "Lost in Translation" forced relationships in lieu of cultural immersion. I don’t want to be someone’s distraction. I want to be their passion.

We wrapped up dinner and headed to the car; le Francais, my Brazilian Angel and I. As we drove home, I mentioned my sore legs from my four hours of volleyball.

"You played volleyball and didn’t invite me?" My Brazilian Angel asked, clearly upset.

"I wasn’t invited until ten minutes before we played. And then I didn’t know we were going to play again until we were about to play." I explained.

"But Chris, you know how I love volleyball. You could have called me." My Brazilian Angel declared, truly upset.

"I know you love volleyball but I don’t have a cell phone and I didn’t even know we were going to play until we were playing."

"You should have invited me." My Brazilian Angel sulked.

"Next time I will." I promised, not really wanting to.

"Yes, you should have invited me." She repeated herself.

A few minutes later we were home and I was left bewildered about my place in the world.