GOING OUT ON A POSITIVE NOTE

It has come to my attention that god wants me to be a lesbian. Unfortunately, I was not born gay. However, if you can be “therapy-ed” into being straight, why can’t I therapy myself into being gay? I don’t mean to make light of disgusting practices in the states but I truly have come to a turning point in my attitude towards the more appealing gender in China. I have spoken to the Jude about my decision to be gay and she fully supports it. “Like the women in prison. They’re not gay but they don’t have any other option for comfort. I totally support you.”

On Sunday (7/1) I went on my peer pressure date. More than anything, I did not want to go on my date with my masseur, not because he was going to hit on me but because I was going to lose a good masseur. However, all my married, Western girlfriends here have been giving me a hard time about not being open enough to dating and generally being “too hard on men.” They all saw my masseur as god’s gift to women; sweet, sensitive and thoughtful. They felt we were a perfect match; he would domesticate me and I would culture him, despite the fact that we don’t have a common language and I feel absolutely not a moment’s lust towards him. He and I have the opposite of chemistry; I neither hate him nor desire him. I simply don’t care.

So, I went on my date and did my best to make small talk in Chinese. He was edgy and not really participatory in any way. It was strange to share such a newfound space with him. In the massage room, he’s really inquisitive and I wish he would shut the hell up and just give me a rub down. I was not particularly fond of his newfound silence and felt, “Ah, here’s my punishment for not listening to my gut. He won’t talk and this once calm gentleman has turned into a cranky, temperamental date.”

We walked to the restaurant, I tried to squish my dread at having to masticate an entire meal in his presence and promised myself that I would get a nice, long nap after this obnoxious ordeal. We sorted out what we wanted to eat and as the “conversation” died, he handed me a note. On the bottom of the note, written out by him in Chinese and on the top was the translation (by another person) in English. “Dear Christina, Will you take me to your apartment? Yours, [Your Date]”

It took me a moment to collect myself. To go back to my apartment meant to have sex. To have sex meant to get married. To get married means to never get divorced. I have spent less than 6 hours with this man in my whole life and am completely unable to communicate with him.

The first thing that went through my head was, “Well, it’s more romantic than, ‘I don’t want to have to rape you. Raping you is no fun for me so save me money on a hotel by taking me home because you have to trust me,’ but somehow this just isn’t the romance I’m looking for. I mean, I know you’re supposed to compromise to make a relationship work but this still seems a bit too much compromise.”

Still stunned, I said, “Uh, no.”

“No?!” He asked, furious. Angrily, he picked up his chopsticks and stabbed at his food. Astonished at his rage, I looked at him, questioningly but he refused to make eye contact or speak for the rest of the date.

“Perfect” I thought. “This is the perfect end to the perfect fucking year. I’m in a position where I’m surrounded by people who are all only children and spoiled only children at that, and all 1.6 billion of them don’t understand why I can’t make an exception for just them. Each one of them fully believes that they are special beyond all others and clearly should be given license to abuse me as they choose. It’s getting on my last damned nerve.”

And, as I’ve been walking around Xi’An in these few days between the end of being a teacher for the year and the beginning of being a student, I watch parents and children and realize that there is no way that relationships as I understand them could possibly exist on a large scale here. Parents love their children purely; it is a love and a doting that exists nowhere but within the parent/child relationship. For the most part, parents don’t care for each other and ignore each other. For the most part, friends merely spend their time gossiping about the other friends who aren’t around for that mahjong game. Adults have had the ability to love (because what is more revolutionary that love and passion?) and adore each other beaten out of them to such an extent that most romantic relationships are merely a financial transaction of sex for money and most friendships are merely convenient fair weathered friends.

The only source of love (as I know it) that a child around here will ever see is the one from their parent and so it is no surprise to me that even within adult marriages, the in-laws and the bank account numbers have a stronger pull than the spouse.

To be honest, I wish money was an aphrodisiac for me. I have been proposed to by a great number of wealthy men looking for a kept, blonde mistress. Things would be much easier if I had a boyfriend who simply wants to keep me. However, the sexiest thing anyone has done in Xi’An is forgo his obscene wealth and power to instead choose to make me roses out of paper napkins and refill my water glass to prevent a hang over.

It’s funny but all of this makes me miss both Bill and Z. Bill, I miss for obvious reasons I won’t reiterate. However, Z is a new case. Not that I would take Z back or that he would have me back but I miss our friendship. Our major problem was that I’m very comfortable with men and he’s very jealous. I did everything I could to curb myself and my male friendships when we were together but it was simply not enough and I couldn’t continue with someone who went so far as to make things up to be jealous about. When our relationship was devoid of outside interaction, the intimate, personal stuff was really lovely. He never pressured me or took advantage of me; he respected me as a human being. Despite our incompatibility, I think he’s a good guy. In fact, he’s the reason I keep being pulled back from the edge of racism and furious thoughts about the idea that “all Chinese people” are a certain way when I get overwhelmed by the naïve, self-absorbed, high-school drama that is so pervasive here.

So, I had hoped to go out of the school year on a high note or at least, not a crappy note, but it looks like that isn’t going to happen. Everything that should have been worked out with the school before June 30th (when I ceased to be an employee of the school) has been delayed indefinitely, the technical issues I was having have gone unsolved and my bosses still treat me like I ought to be grateful for being graced by their presence despite the fact that my contract has already expired. Even the weather sucks. It’s rainy and that horrible temperature that’s too cold for a t-shirt but too hot/humid for more.

I wish I could say that I learned more than survival and shared anything but I have my doubts. At least next year I’ll know what I’m doing and the learning curve shouldn’t be so great.

Perhaps upon further reflection, I’ll have something more interesting and more poetic to say about my first year here. However, for the time being, consider this the end of my first year in China.