VANITY
I have been toying with the idea of chopping off my hair again. I miss the hair off my neck and the short hair that needs little more than a tuck behind my ears to be handled. I enjoy the romantic swirl of long hair but not the day-to-day reality and, ultimately, I am a girl built for comfort, not glamour. Not to mention, short hair just feels like me. Long hair has always felt too girly-girl for me and while I have grown to love being a woman, I'm not a frilly woman.
With this in the forefront of my mind, I went to the latest in a long string of salons to get my hair cut. After much arguing, I finally got the hair stylist to cut my hair like the photo I showed him. Apparently, no woman in her right mind would cut off all the hair I had. After all, I have the sacred, long, blond hair.
I, however, have never made claims to being in my "right mind."
And so, once again I returned to the land of short hair. By god, I missed it. It's long and tousled in the front and short and stacked in the back. Getting rid of my roots was another matter and I'll sum up the double bleaching, six-conditioner-free shampooings complete with the standard nail-scratching "relaxing" Chinese head massage and single dyeing incident by saying that the sores on my scalp are still weeping and clotting in my hair. Merely because my girls back home sent me a vat of cholesterol, I've managed not to lose my hair. It's safe to say that if my hair and scalp should survive this assault, I am rather happy with the results, despite the less-than-stellar shade of blond and lack of layers in my hair.
However, the fact of the matter is that in the back of my mind, I finally man-ed up and went to the hairdressers because I knew I'd be seeing that lovely French man with the lovely girlfriend at a wedding today and because Bill might be coming back to Xi'An at the start of September. Though I had signed off on him and am certainly not holding my breath, my Brazilian Angel is desperate to get Bill and I together. She thinks we'd be perfect and she really wants to make me happy. It is a kind gesture. She has even gone so far as to assure me that he was unable to see me because he did not stop in Xi'An this last time.
Nevertheless, I am amused by my own vanity. I cut my hair not because I wanted to look like "me" for me but because I wanted to look like me for the men I find infinitely attractive. Because I am not exempt from the human condition, I find myself reasoning to the edge, dallying about the edge ad nauseum and then flinging myself off the precipice without a second thought only at the (mere) mention of lust. I have admitted before to having an addict's problem with men and, frankly, it remains to this day.
Case in point: I spent the day watching the beautiful wedding of two of my closer friends in Xi'An and the highlight of the afternoon was the quiet joke shared between my French friend and myself. Such an addict I am.
When my French friend and his lovely girlfriend entered the banquet, she- being a truly lovely woman- waved emphatically to me and he nodded his casual nod towards me. There was no other indication of his recognition than the polite acknowledgment that I existed. I figured our delightful evening had just been one in a long string of lovely encounters for him and he would barely remember me.
After the banquet, I went over to their table under the guise of introducing some friends and much to my great pleasure, my French friend cracked a joke (aimed at no one but me) about something that happened the last time we met and then looked at me with those same eyes. I am such a sucker for that specific glance from a quiet, observant man.
And it got me thinking about the benchmark of that look; my first love. He and I had been talking online this morning before I had to head out to the wedding. He mentioned in passing how he's not happy with his body at the moment and so he doesn't really think about whether or not he's attractive because he's decided he's not. Upon reading that comment, I actually found myself laughing out loud. It is so odd, the things we pin our vanity to.
There are no words to encapsulate how utterly absurd the notion that he is not lust worthy is. Frankly, structurally speaking, my first love is a very handsome, masculine man. He is not some teenager tarted-up to sell magazines but rather a real man in the "Greek statue" sense of things. He is one of the easiest, most casually handsome things I have ever seen. In the era of pretty, effeminate, non-threatening boys selling whatever product with their lost little lamb qualities, my first love is a solid man. He is not pretty in any way. He is fully masculine in the traditional sense and every inch of him can only be described as handsome. His profile is striking, his eyes are penetrating and his eyes carry that incalculable quality of centered concentration that makes woman all atwitter. Most men watch a woman to see if she is entertained. Most men look (at me, at least) to gauge their own appropriateness in a situation, not to see her. She is little more than yet one more way to see themselves reflected back much like an assets statement or a flashy car.
However, in that gaze my first love articulated for me so many years ago lies the statement of patience and a level of commitment to stick through my nervous shyness and wait for me to gain my nerve so that I might bloom into all the colors I am fully capable of. It is a gaze to see me, not him. I can be a grand dame of epic proportions and often am in order to overcome my shyness but it's not who I am at home, much less in bed. It is that gaze that penetrates my peacock showiness and declares itself steady and curious enough to stick around and find out what I'm like at home. In that gaze, I feel comfortable enough to inhabit all my facets; grand dame to shy bookworm. It allows me to be seen as "versatile" and not "deceptive."
That gaze is my benchmark for all men. My first love spoiled me with it as a young woman and frankly, I look to be spoiled like that again. Money, things, stuff; I can get. I don't need someone to bring me things. I need someone to look at me like that. Given the diversity of my dating life, my friends are usually at a loss to explain what it is that my men have had in common but the fact is that it is that gaze that has been the common denominator. It is precisely that unwaivering ability to observe and remain focused that leaves a girl stripped and breathless. In that unwavering gaze, a girl realizes all the reason god made her a woman. A girl realizes her own perfect, specific beauty and the dust of insecurity is shaken off in the grip of that sort of gaze. To me, there is no lust without that gaze and without lust, you merely have friendship.
It is that gaze that I compare all others to. If a man cannot focus on me with that exquisite detail, I am utterly disinterested. It is tedious and boring to be with a man who cannot make you feel like the only thing to have ever existed, much less a man who would need the Cliff notes to my incongruous nature. It is the men who can look at a woman like that, focus on her and leave her utterly unhinged that make life interesting.
My French friend has the ability to look at me like that down pat and it's dangerous for me. First of all, I really like his girlfriend. She is a good woman and truly lovely. Secondly, I don't want to be a mistress. I'm no good at playing second fiddle. Frankly, I'm too spoiled to be very good at being first, much less second.
However, there is that gaze and I am a slave to it. In that incalculable, ephemeral state- that chemistry between two people- I am utterly lost. All he need to is ask and I am his for the taking. My safety lies not in my ability to reason but in his lack of articulated desire. Ration and reason strip themselves from me along with insecurity in that gaze. And, to be totally honest, since I've made the decision to join the nunnery, the long-term ramifications of my romantic life seem inconsequential so there is no longer a nagging voice in the back of my mind. I don't care about whether or not we'd have a future. I don't care how he'd fit into my life or how we'd "make things work." I just want to have time alone with him when it's convenient for me and then get on with my life.
And so I did the only reasonable thing in a no-win situation; I dug in deeper. I promptly gave them my contact information and said that we needed to hang out.
Ah, the vanity of my libido.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
INTIMACY
I must admit, I'm not nearly as prepared for intimacy as I'd like. Granted, I had forgotten just how pervasive the lack of intimacy is here but nevertheless I'm amazed at how much an intimate relationship can throw me for a loop. Keep in mind, as I discuss "intimate" it's not a euphemism for "sex" or even "romantic attachment" but rather that specific emotional connection you feel towards someone with whom you are more often than not without defense and equal parts raw and complete.
My first love almost always has and probably always will be capable of throwing me for a loop... without even trying. Ironically, I have never known him to try. In fact, I'm quite certain there is no one in the history of the world who has ever tried harder NOT to throw me for a loop... ever. To speak bluntly, there is no one in the world I trust more than he and there is no one in the world who has ever been steadier with accepting me as I am. Yes, I have pissed him off and known it. Yes, we have hurt each other. However, he is the only person I have ever known who has never abandoned me out of frustration and has always made himself available to the best of his ability. And, to his great pleasure- I'm sure- he is the only person around whom I have always felt comfortable just being me as I think of me, in all my lunacy. My one great regret about our friendship is that I was not there for him during a particularly difficult time for him. It is, actually, the single regret I have about my life.
There is no one who, at current, can get a rise out of me the way he can nor is there anyone quite as capable of putting me at ease. The fact that I live in a world where no one can access- much less challenge- me the way he does makes me even less prepared to handle myself around him. At home, I am surrounded by a social network of girlfriends who keep me honest about who I am and in whose company I can forget about the "role" I play for them. That keeps me honest and clear on who I am. However, I am not at home. So, in my occasional dealings with him while I'm here, I find myself not the stoic leader with this fantastical future ahead of her that everyone else seems to see but the spastic teen most of us fear being and are happy we outgrew.
This is China and so I am accustomed to the necessity of the patience of a saint merely to get through the day. The Chinese custom is that all meetings will consider beginning no sooner than one hour and a half after the scheduled start time. No one in China ever plans anything and, as my Brazilian Angel so aptly coined, "Darling, this is last minute dot com." I am accustomed to people not thinking about me until 1 am and then indulging in their desire to speak with me right then and there despite the fact that they flaked on our lunch date earlier in the day. I am not human to most of the people I meet here and so, in many ways, I am exempt from the human condition. I need to not be invested in the men who wax poetic about me for I am merely mute, alabaster breasts with blonde hair, blue eyes and a greencard vagina on a pedestal. I am every man's dream because I am merely their perceived perfect blank canvas. I need not be invested in most of the women who befriend me for I am merely the exotic beauty they use to up their social status. I need not waste my time connecting with most of the foreigners for I am merely the fellow sister with strength and potential to envy or the powerful goddess he wishes his wife still was. I am placid, unflappable and infinitely tolerant because, to put it bluntly, I am irrelevant.
However, one mere mention in passing from my first love that he had to pencil in time to contact me so he wouldn't forget and I go off the deep end. I'm furious someone as important as he has been to me has to remind himself to think of me; has to note me on a calendar. I'm crying at the thought that the affection I will always hold for him is a stupid, nostalgic fool's errand built on nothing but my own pathetic projection. And, I find myself erasing all the emails he's ever sent me because I suddenly find that I am not exempt from the human condition and am, in fact, very capable of going to that crazy girl place... and far more easily than I would care to admit to. In a world where I am the calmest, most rational, reasonable human being around- a veritable bodhisvatta- I find myself in the midst of an overreaction worthy of some sort of scientific award. I believe I discovered spontaneous generation; the creation of an infinite amount of energy from absolutely nothing. Because I'm an eight year old, I actually found myself swearing I would never speak to him again and see how he liked it. And then I shot off an email to my girl from that dark space about how hurt I was.
Kali was back but at least this time, for the first time, I had the good sense to see I was losing my mind and not inflict it upon him.
As I purged all electronic things (I would never be able to rid myself of the more tangible pieces of him) from him with vengeance, he then sent a follow up email and a request to chat online with me. Begrudgingly, I accepted, though not after debating ignoring him. And between the compendium email he sent me and the chat we had online, I remember precisely what I adore about him. I adore his steadiness, which results in various things, including his need to have a calendar of "to do" things in order to prioritize. He is anything but reckless and I adore that. That is not to say that he does not have earth-shattering passion but that is to say he's more adult about it than I am. He is mature enough to weigh the pragmatic and sort out a way to make real life coexist with his passion. It doesn't mean his affection is greater or lesser than mine, merely realized differently. Mine just happens to be a lot louder and his, perhaps, is a lot stronger. At the very least, it's far more dependable.
Frankly, it's lovely being revealed to be such an immature, raving lunatic. I was starting to think this detachment wasn't merely a geographical issue but rather something more permanent and insidious; that I had lost my ability to engage emotionally. Leave it to him to prove me wrong in the nicest possible way.
I must admit, I'm not nearly as prepared for intimacy as I'd like. Granted, I had forgotten just how pervasive the lack of intimacy is here but nevertheless I'm amazed at how much an intimate relationship can throw me for a loop. Keep in mind, as I discuss "intimate" it's not a euphemism for "sex" or even "romantic attachment" but rather that specific emotional connection you feel towards someone with whom you are more often than not without defense and equal parts raw and complete.
My first love almost always has and probably always will be capable of throwing me for a loop... without even trying. Ironically, I have never known him to try. In fact, I'm quite certain there is no one in the history of the world who has ever tried harder NOT to throw me for a loop... ever. To speak bluntly, there is no one in the world I trust more than he and there is no one in the world who has ever been steadier with accepting me as I am. Yes, I have pissed him off and known it. Yes, we have hurt each other. However, he is the only person I have ever known who has never abandoned me out of frustration and has always made himself available to the best of his ability. And, to his great pleasure- I'm sure- he is the only person around whom I have always felt comfortable just being me as I think of me, in all my lunacy. My one great regret about our friendship is that I was not there for him during a particularly difficult time for him. It is, actually, the single regret I have about my life.
There is no one who, at current, can get a rise out of me the way he can nor is there anyone quite as capable of putting me at ease. The fact that I live in a world where no one can access- much less challenge- me the way he does makes me even less prepared to handle myself around him. At home, I am surrounded by a social network of girlfriends who keep me honest about who I am and in whose company I can forget about the "role" I play for them. That keeps me honest and clear on who I am. However, I am not at home. So, in my occasional dealings with him while I'm here, I find myself not the stoic leader with this fantastical future ahead of her that everyone else seems to see but the spastic teen most of us fear being and are happy we outgrew.
This is China and so I am accustomed to the necessity of the patience of a saint merely to get through the day. The Chinese custom is that all meetings will consider beginning no sooner than one hour and a half after the scheduled start time. No one in China ever plans anything and, as my Brazilian Angel so aptly coined, "Darling, this is last minute dot com." I am accustomed to people not thinking about me until 1 am and then indulging in their desire to speak with me right then and there despite the fact that they flaked on our lunch date earlier in the day. I am not human to most of the people I meet here and so, in many ways, I am exempt from the human condition. I need to not be invested in the men who wax poetic about me for I am merely mute, alabaster breasts with blonde hair, blue eyes and a greencard vagina on a pedestal. I am every man's dream because I am merely their perceived perfect blank canvas. I need not be invested in most of the women who befriend me for I am merely the exotic beauty they use to up their social status. I need not waste my time connecting with most of the foreigners for I am merely the fellow sister with strength and potential to envy or the powerful goddess he wishes his wife still was. I am placid, unflappable and infinitely tolerant because, to put it bluntly, I am irrelevant.
However, one mere mention in passing from my first love that he had to pencil in time to contact me so he wouldn't forget and I go off the deep end. I'm furious someone as important as he has been to me has to remind himself to think of me; has to note me on a calendar. I'm crying at the thought that the affection I will always hold for him is a stupid, nostalgic fool's errand built on nothing but my own pathetic projection. And, I find myself erasing all the emails he's ever sent me because I suddenly find that I am not exempt from the human condition and am, in fact, very capable of going to that crazy girl place... and far more easily than I would care to admit to. In a world where I am the calmest, most rational, reasonable human being around- a veritable bodhisvatta- I find myself in the midst of an overreaction worthy of some sort of scientific award. I believe I discovered spontaneous generation; the creation of an infinite amount of energy from absolutely nothing. Because I'm an eight year old, I actually found myself swearing I would never speak to him again and see how he liked it. And then I shot off an email to my girl from that dark space about how hurt I was.
Kali was back but at least this time, for the first time, I had the good sense to see I was losing my mind and not inflict it upon him.
As I purged all electronic things (I would never be able to rid myself of the more tangible pieces of him) from him with vengeance, he then sent a follow up email and a request to chat online with me. Begrudgingly, I accepted, though not after debating ignoring him. And between the compendium email he sent me and the chat we had online, I remember precisely what I adore about him. I adore his steadiness, which results in various things, including his need to have a calendar of "to do" things in order to prioritize. He is anything but reckless and I adore that. That is not to say that he does not have earth-shattering passion but that is to say he's more adult about it than I am. He is mature enough to weigh the pragmatic and sort out a way to make real life coexist with his passion. It doesn't mean his affection is greater or lesser than mine, merely realized differently. Mine just happens to be a lot louder and his, perhaps, is a lot stronger. At the very least, it's far more dependable.
Frankly, it's lovely being revealed to be such an immature, raving lunatic. I was starting to think this detachment wasn't merely a geographical issue but rather something more permanent and insidious; that I had lost my ability to engage emotionally. Leave it to him to prove me wrong in the nicest possible way.
Monday, August 13, 2007
GET ME TO A NUNNERY
It has been coming to my attention for some time now that I am meant to be alone for the indefinite future. I do not speak of platonic love, merely romantic. I am well aware that I am infinitely more lucky than the vast majority of the planet as I am surrounded by an abundance of love. However, there is a marked dearth of romantic love in my life, and has been for some time. Perhaps it will be the rest of my life. Perhaps it will be merely moments more. Who knows? I do know that I don’t know. I also know that I am tired of waiting.
This in mind, the fact of the matter is that I have always found idea of the mechanics of a monastic life appealing. Like all true romantics, I have always been secretly enamored with the idea of living in a space where you have resigned to the idea of solitude and removed yourself from the angst of romantic love. It always seemed so ballsy to me to buck the system I have been addicted to my whole life and just find the inner resolve to get on with things. To be honest, I fantasize about being a soccer mom the way most people fantasize about being a rockstar; the quiet mourning of a dream you know will never be, at least not within the parameters you envision.
In light of my time in China (and the world in general), that is what I have decided to do. I will grab the bull by the horns and resolve myself to live my life with no account for making my own family. To be without a family of my own creation is one of my greatest fears and I will live with that fear no longer. I will embrace what I fear about never having a mate or biological children and learn to live beyond it. If it happens upon me, so be it and I will embrace it with open arms but I’m tired of the quiet, nagging voice in my head that wonders when companionship will arrive, wonders if he’s around the next bend and wonders if I really can compromise enough to keep the latest “him” in my life. I have been loved greatly by lovely men and in that, I have no complaints. However, I am shackled by this nagging voice and constantly at odds with a situation I have no control over. My conscious effort to remain open has merely led to heartache whose only two lessons to be learned are; 1. The things I love always have been and seem to always be less-than-healthy and 2. I can survive innumerable immolations. That’s all well and good and probably completely normal but, to what end?
So, I have resolved to scuttle that voice and live beyond it. Frankly, I’m tired of remaining open to the possibility of love. I wish I could say I was outraged by the way most of my pathetic attempts at relationships have ended but they have merely served to make me feel more for my fellow human beings. I wish I could say I loathe love and resent my fellow human beings for it but quite the contrary. The more I get kicked around, the more I love love because I see it for the fragile, near-impossible beauty it is. The more I get kicked around, the more compassion I feel because I keep learning that we lash out most often because we are afraid of losing love. The more deeply I’m wounded, the more clearly I see the suffering of the person wounding me.
That said, I’ve grown tired; bone weary really. I don’t begrudge anyone romantic love. I don’t, however, want it for myself anymore. I hate the duality of wanting to hate someone but the more I need to hate them the more I find myself unable to do so. And I now wish to construct a life for myself that services the ephemeral nature of my personality. A long-term commitment to solitude and the greater good seems peacefully appealing. In short; a nunnery.
The only snag in my little plan is that I don’t believe in god. Granted, I don’t disbelieve in god either. Frankly, I’m neither here nor there on the “god” issue and instead choose to focus on what I do know about with some certainty (relatively speaking); mankind. It is why I stayed with the 9/11 work far longer than was healthy for me. That is why I have done a myriad of things that were, perhaps, not the best for me but definitely have serviced the greater good. My humanitarian bent aside, I’m pretty sure that whole “who knows” attitude towards god rules out a marriage to whatever deity nuns tend to wed.
So, in lieu of the nunnery, I’ve chosen the Foreign Service. I am not built to remain in the education of students for the rest of the life that lies before me. I can see myself returning to academia but the thought of always doing this for the rest of my life has never sat well with me. I’m sure the Ivory Tower is my destiny but I’m not ready to resign myself to that life quite yet. The Ivory Tower always seemed like a job for retirement and, frankly, I’m not even 30 yet. Also, I have no desire to return to the States permanently yet. I’m sure the desire will return upon my need to “slow down” or whatever, but I’m not there now. I love wandering about the planet, seeing what there is to see and interacting with new cultures. The fact that I would be moving once every 2 to 4 years is perfection to me. Also, I love building bridges of communication. I love art and expression and all the good that mankind is capable of. (As a full spectrum species, we are capable of just as much evil however the nightly news seems to have cornered the market on the depressing aspects of our human condition) Fortunately for me, the Foreign Service has combined the Art and Press departments as a singular unit meaning that those of us with a communications background (as my film experience offers) must also manage cultural liaisons (as my academic background offers) while speaking one of the “hot” languages like Mandarin and the ever-standard French.
Which means I will be working on my Mandarin, studying for the FSO exam and generally imbuing my daily life with a bit more focus than I’ve had recently. This decision makes my head a peaceful place to be. Perhaps I’ll even go the Mia Farrow route and start adopting a million children. I think I could be an okay mom, despite my lack of SUV.
It has been coming to my attention for some time now that I am meant to be alone for the indefinite future. I do not speak of platonic love, merely romantic. I am well aware that I am infinitely more lucky than the vast majority of the planet as I am surrounded by an abundance of love. However, there is a marked dearth of romantic love in my life, and has been for some time. Perhaps it will be the rest of my life. Perhaps it will be merely moments more. Who knows? I do know that I don’t know. I also know that I am tired of waiting.
This in mind, the fact of the matter is that I have always found idea of the mechanics of a monastic life appealing. Like all true romantics, I have always been secretly enamored with the idea of living in a space where you have resigned to the idea of solitude and removed yourself from the angst of romantic love. It always seemed so ballsy to me to buck the system I have been addicted to my whole life and just find the inner resolve to get on with things. To be honest, I fantasize about being a soccer mom the way most people fantasize about being a rockstar; the quiet mourning of a dream you know will never be, at least not within the parameters you envision.
In light of my time in China (and the world in general), that is what I have decided to do. I will grab the bull by the horns and resolve myself to live my life with no account for making my own family. To be without a family of my own creation is one of my greatest fears and I will live with that fear no longer. I will embrace what I fear about never having a mate or biological children and learn to live beyond it. If it happens upon me, so be it and I will embrace it with open arms but I’m tired of the quiet, nagging voice in my head that wonders when companionship will arrive, wonders if he’s around the next bend and wonders if I really can compromise enough to keep the latest “him” in my life. I have been loved greatly by lovely men and in that, I have no complaints. However, I am shackled by this nagging voice and constantly at odds with a situation I have no control over. My conscious effort to remain open has merely led to heartache whose only two lessons to be learned are; 1. The things I love always have been and seem to always be less-than-healthy and 2. I can survive innumerable immolations. That’s all well and good and probably completely normal but, to what end?
So, I have resolved to scuttle that voice and live beyond it. Frankly, I’m tired of remaining open to the possibility of love. I wish I could say I was outraged by the way most of my pathetic attempts at relationships have ended but they have merely served to make me feel more for my fellow human beings. I wish I could say I loathe love and resent my fellow human beings for it but quite the contrary. The more I get kicked around, the more I love love because I see it for the fragile, near-impossible beauty it is. The more I get kicked around, the more compassion I feel because I keep learning that we lash out most often because we are afraid of losing love. The more deeply I’m wounded, the more clearly I see the suffering of the person wounding me.
That said, I’ve grown tired; bone weary really. I don’t begrudge anyone romantic love. I don’t, however, want it for myself anymore. I hate the duality of wanting to hate someone but the more I need to hate them the more I find myself unable to do so. And I now wish to construct a life for myself that services the ephemeral nature of my personality. A long-term commitment to solitude and the greater good seems peacefully appealing. In short; a nunnery.
The only snag in my little plan is that I don’t believe in god. Granted, I don’t disbelieve in god either. Frankly, I’m neither here nor there on the “god” issue and instead choose to focus on what I do know about with some certainty (relatively speaking); mankind. It is why I stayed with the 9/11 work far longer than was healthy for me. That is why I have done a myriad of things that were, perhaps, not the best for me but definitely have serviced the greater good. My humanitarian bent aside, I’m pretty sure that whole “who knows” attitude towards god rules out a marriage to whatever deity nuns tend to wed.
So, in lieu of the nunnery, I’ve chosen the Foreign Service. I am not built to remain in the education of students for the rest of the life that lies before me. I can see myself returning to academia but the thought of always doing this for the rest of my life has never sat well with me. I’m sure the Ivory Tower is my destiny but I’m not ready to resign myself to that life quite yet. The Ivory Tower always seemed like a job for retirement and, frankly, I’m not even 30 yet. Also, I have no desire to return to the States permanently yet. I’m sure the desire will return upon my need to “slow down” or whatever, but I’m not there now. I love wandering about the planet, seeing what there is to see and interacting with new cultures. The fact that I would be moving once every 2 to 4 years is perfection to me. Also, I love building bridges of communication. I love art and expression and all the good that mankind is capable of. (As a full spectrum species, we are capable of just as much evil however the nightly news seems to have cornered the market on the depressing aspects of our human condition) Fortunately for me, the Foreign Service has combined the Art and Press departments as a singular unit meaning that those of us with a communications background (as my film experience offers) must also manage cultural liaisons (as my academic background offers) while speaking one of the “hot” languages like Mandarin and the ever-standard French.
Which means I will be working on my Mandarin, studying for the FSO exam and generally imbuing my daily life with a bit more focus than I’ve had recently. This decision makes my head a peaceful place to be. Perhaps I’ll even go the Mia Farrow route and start adopting a million children. I think I could be an okay mom, despite my lack of SUV.
Friday, August 10, 2007
INTERMISSION
I've written and rewritten this entry for a couple of weeks now. So many things keep happening and I find it too difficult to encapsulate it all into a single analysis. I guess I can't and so I'll just relate the broad strokes to you as the unfolded. There's no real "story" here, complete with a beginning, middle and end because, well, it's just my life. It seems to defy encapsulation for me. And, as Utta Hagen once said to her student when she told him to be more passionate about a scen and he responded with "Oh, I get it. You want 'larger than life'." she replied, "My dear, there is nothing larger than life."
At the end of July, a lovely couple came to stay with me. I did not know them and they did not know me. They remarked, on several occasions, how kind it was for me to open my door and allow them to stay in my home. It wasn't until the first time they made such a comment that it even occurred to me that I might not have offered a place to stay. They are, after all, friends of my great (and I mean "great" in both familial description as well as genuinely fabulous) aunt and of similar minds. The only reason I had not offered my place to stay after our first email exchange was that I wasn't sure my guest room would be open and I needed to run the idea by the Jude to make sure it wasn't an inappropriate gesture as I have never before been in the position of being able to offer residence to people I'd never met but with whom I felt a kinship of sorts. Once the Jude assured me it was not an inappropriate gesture, I offered and they accepted.
It was one of the best things I've done in China. I got to hear stories of the rest of China and I got wonderful company. They were highly respectful of my schedule and simply a pleasure to have around. She was a ball of silly, wonderful fun coupled with such a fantastic ability to roll with the punches. It was heartening to be around another woman who lacked such marked fragility as the women I am surrounded with. It was such a relief not to have to be concerned about my female company and her emotional fragility. In short, I not only didn't have to mother her but in an utter inversion of what I have been experiencing here, she had quite a lot to teach me about what I value most in feminine strength, kindness and perseverance.
And he was simply lovely. Given the relationship I have with my own father, I am always a bit uncertain about the friendships I have with men older than myself. I worry about the men I am (platonically) attracted to and my own judgment about such matters. Familially speaking, wonderful men surround me however, I did start off with some less-than-stellar lessons and so every once and a while my supremely bad judgment crops up. Not true in this case. There was the element of my mother's father that exists in every man I adore in my family; the element of a quiet man set upon astute and kind observation. Frankly put, no one has made me consciously think more about my perspective on my time here than he. And, he didn't do it with a lot fanfare It simply came through in quiet moments.
They were a breath of fresh air I didn't consciously realize I needed. I found myself entirely unedited and pieces of myself that have verbally atrophied (I can still write about them but there is no one here with whom I can share significant pieces of myself verbally) were awoken. For the first time in a year, I was challenged by the questions being asked. Seeing the two of them together, seeing the two of them in the flesh and seeing how much they seemed to like being around me reminded me that there is a world (small though it may be) of people of like mind and that I belong there. She reminded me of a world where women can take care of themselves and he reminded me of a world where men can see the full spectrum of the things I value. They brought a lovely bubble of home into my little vacuum and I am forever grateful for that.
There are no witty anecdotes to sum them up and no astute observations to typify them. It was the broad spectrum of their entire time here that I value and there is no one moment I value more than another. The were all priceless to me. I hope that we will be life-long friends.
And then there is school. I was clearly placed in the only class they had and it was way too advanced for me. I did my best but was irretrievably behind the other students who had all been studying for at least three years in an academic setting and even longer in a personal setting. However, now that they were all in China for the first time, it suddenly became summer camp. Korea, not long after our "You're very Asian" encounter, soon revealed himself to be entirely too frat boy-ish for my taste. In a few years I have no doubt he will be a lovely and wonderful boy but he is in dire need of a good, life ass kicking. He's too obsessed with people liking him and the drama of being the cookie-cutter, good-looking bloke as women duke it out around him. He's a dreamboat but he's also a man you would never be alone with, even if it was just the two of you. He is attracted to the girl who only wants the validation of being wanted by the boy all the girls want. And, after I spent one night out with the group in a club, it became abundantly clear that the boy I would make a total ass out of myself over (the sensitive, thoughtful, steady, 19-year-old, half-German/half-Chinese lad) were I young enough was not romantically valued by anyone except myself. So, socially, I knew I had nothing in common with the soap opera unfolding of unrequited hormones and masochistic, twenty-something drama for drama's sake. Which meant the only thing I would be getting out of my class was the academic work.
Unfortunately, the first teacher had had enough of my fellow summer campers and decided to focus on me and teaching me almost to the exclusion of the rest of the class. She became so focused on making an example of me in front of the whole class that I simply skipped her last day of class because it became untenable to constantly have, "I just want to audit the class because it is WAY over my level" constantly ignored. Then, the second teacher, a much more serious teacher, followed suit. I had explained that I wanted to audit and wasn't able to fully participate as the class (on the whole) significantly above my level. Apparently, my levels of honesty were a bad thing as she quickly decided (within the first hour of class) that she should teach, shame and punish me to the exclusion of the rest of the students who all showed up at least a half hour late to her first class. The first day of that class was the first day I've ever tried to write Chinese and so, bright as I may be, two weeks of class is not going to cover the at-least-three-years-of-reading-and-writing the rest of the class has on me.
None of that seemed to matter to the new teacher and I was the first one she called upon to do any reading or writing exercise. Now, I've been a teacher in China long enough to understand that this tough love is considered a sigh of great affection from a Chinese teacher, however, I was there to learn and simply could not with the constant barrage of, "Wrong. Class, what did she do wrong THIS time?" Frankly, it got so bad even my socially inept classmates simply stopped responding to her questions to open up her berating of me. Tough love teachers simply shut me down. I am unable to function in a "tough love" classroom if I am granted no respite. And, this started to damage my ability to speak Chinese. I lost more Chinese taking that class than I learned. The confidence that class killed makes it difficult to go out in the morning and simply do what I've always normally done. So, as I caught myself making excuses and hedging my lifestyle simply to avoid speaking Chinese because the class made me feel stupid, I decided to quit. Frankly, I am the only person who can take care of me here and the last thing I need is to be housebound with agoraphobia.
And the day I quit, I was invited to a party.
I have made a lot of friends in the French contingent of Xi'An. In fact, none of my close foreign friends here speak English natively. Most of them speak French and a few of them speak German. One of my favorite French men invited me to his and his Chinese wife's home for a party with their other friends.
And then I realized I have grown into my age. I was at last at a party of similarly aged people (for the first time, not significantly older) with whom I felt comfortable socially.
As the party began, I noticed I was getting a bit of extra attention from a new Xi'An arrival. He was boisterous and there with his beautiful girlfriend but none of that seemed to stop him from constantly looking to and speaking with the more subdued me. At first I thought nothing of it and figured it was merely a social boy being social but after a while it became clear I really was getting extra attention.
A bit of the way through the party and after two sets of couples were there, a third showed up (always couples here!). We were all chatting when the new couple entered. The woman was a fireball, instantly the "life of the party," and the only other American there. She was everything I dread about being at a party with women my age; she was loud, confident in that naive 20-something way, overtly sexual and non-stop. She is the archetype that walks into a party and instantly has all the men captivated while the rest of us mere mortal females seem to vanish into the background. I was certain at her arrival, this attention I was being lavished with would evaporate.
However, it was not so at this party. She showed up, was her fiery self and none of the men much noticed. Everyone was lovely and social with her but she did not captivate the room the way I am accustomed to seeing. In fact, the lovely French man lavishing me with attention and with whom I would most certainly have gone home had his girlfriend not been in existence, did not miss a beat with me. My platonic interest for the evening acknowledged the fireball within the limits of propriety but kept his eyes on me the whole time. Whenever he had a free moment, he found his way to me to talk and towards the end of the evening clearly settled himself down with me for a long discussion. It was the first time in a very long time I had the very clear message that while he was absolutely physically attracted to me, he was most interested in my conversation. Granted, he is one I can never be alone with for obvious, messy reasons but the affirmation that he wanted to be with me above all others was really lovely.
Frankly, it made me miss Bill. My platonic interest was quietly aggressive in seeking out my discussion and unwavering in his pursuit of me the way Bill had been. In spite of myself and in spite of the clear message of not contacting me during his most recent trip here, I missed Bill most acutely at that party. I was reminded of a lesson in my introductory art history class about the importance of what is missing from art. Often, the absence of a single thing that would fit best within an image is stronger than the foregone conclusions of its presence.
I am insufferable sap.
I missed that about me.
I've written and rewritten this entry for a couple of weeks now. So many things keep happening and I find it too difficult to encapsulate it all into a single analysis. I guess I can't and so I'll just relate the broad strokes to you as the unfolded. There's no real "story" here, complete with a beginning, middle and end because, well, it's just my life. It seems to defy encapsulation for me. And, as Utta Hagen once said to her student when she told him to be more passionate about a scen and he responded with "Oh, I get it. You want 'larger than life'." she replied, "My dear, there is nothing larger than life."
At the end of July, a lovely couple came to stay with me. I did not know them and they did not know me. They remarked, on several occasions, how kind it was for me to open my door and allow them to stay in my home. It wasn't until the first time they made such a comment that it even occurred to me that I might not have offered a place to stay. They are, after all, friends of my great (and I mean "great" in both familial description as well as genuinely fabulous) aunt and of similar minds. The only reason I had not offered my place to stay after our first email exchange was that I wasn't sure my guest room would be open and I needed to run the idea by the Jude to make sure it wasn't an inappropriate gesture as I have never before been in the position of being able to offer residence to people I'd never met but with whom I felt a kinship of sorts. Once the Jude assured me it was not an inappropriate gesture, I offered and they accepted.
It was one of the best things I've done in China. I got to hear stories of the rest of China and I got wonderful company. They were highly respectful of my schedule and simply a pleasure to have around. She was a ball of silly, wonderful fun coupled with such a fantastic ability to roll with the punches. It was heartening to be around another woman who lacked such marked fragility as the women I am surrounded with. It was such a relief not to have to be concerned about my female company and her emotional fragility. In short, I not only didn't have to mother her but in an utter inversion of what I have been experiencing here, she had quite a lot to teach me about what I value most in feminine strength, kindness and perseverance.
And he was simply lovely. Given the relationship I have with my own father, I am always a bit uncertain about the friendships I have with men older than myself. I worry about the men I am (platonically) attracted to and my own judgment about such matters. Familially speaking, wonderful men surround me however, I did start off with some less-than-stellar lessons and so every once and a while my supremely bad judgment crops up. Not true in this case. There was the element of my mother's father that exists in every man I adore in my family; the element of a quiet man set upon astute and kind observation. Frankly put, no one has made me consciously think more about my perspective on my time here than he. And, he didn't do it with a lot fanfare It simply came through in quiet moments.
They were a breath of fresh air I didn't consciously realize I needed. I found myself entirely unedited and pieces of myself that have verbally atrophied (I can still write about them but there is no one here with whom I can share significant pieces of myself verbally) were awoken. For the first time in a year, I was challenged by the questions being asked. Seeing the two of them together, seeing the two of them in the flesh and seeing how much they seemed to like being around me reminded me that there is a world (small though it may be) of people of like mind and that I belong there. She reminded me of a world where women can take care of themselves and he reminded me of a world where men can see the full spectrum of the things I value. They brought a lovely bubble of home into my little vacuum and I am forever grateful for that.
There are no witty anecdotes to sum them up and no astute observations to typify them. It was the broad spectrum of their entire time here that I value and there is no one moment I value more than another. The were all priceless to me. I hope that we will be life-long friends.
And then there is school. I was clearly placed in the only class they had and it was way too advanced for me. I did my best but was irretrievably behind the other students who had all been studying for at least three years in an academic setting and even longer in a personal setting. However, now that they were all in China for the first time, it suddenly became summer camp. Korea, not long after our "You're very Asian" encounter, soon revealed himself to be entirely too frat boy-ish for my taste. In a few years I have no doubt he will be a lovely and wonderful boy but he is in dire need of a good, life ass kicking. He's too obsessed with people liking him and the drama of being the cookie-cutter, good-looking bloke as women duke it out around him. He's a dreamboat but he's also a man you would never be alone with, even if it was just the two of you. He is attracted to the girl who only wants the validation of being wanted by the boy all the girls want. And, after I spent one night out with the group in a club, it became abundantly clear that the boy I would make a total ass out of myself over (the sensitive, thoughtful, steady, 19-year-old, half-German/half-Chinese lad) were I young enough was not romantically valued by anyone except myself. So, socially, I knew I had nothing in common with the soap opera unfolding of unrequited hormones and masochistic, twenty-something drama for drama's sake. Which meant the only thing I would be getting out of my class was the academic work.
Unfortunately, the first teacher had had enough of my fellow summer campers and decided to focus on me and teaching me almost to the exclusion of the rest of the class. She became so focused on making an example of me in front of the whole class that I simply skipped her last day of class because it became untenable to constantly have, "I just want to audit the class because it is WAY over my level" constantly ignored. Then, the second teacher, a much more serious teacher, followed suit. I had explained that I wanted to audit and wasn't able to fully participate as the class (on the whole) significantly above my level. Apparently, my levels of honesty were a bad thing as she quickly decided (within the first hour of class) that she should teach, shame and punish me to the exclusion of the rest of the students who all showed up at least a half hour late to her first class. The first day of that class was the first day I've ever tried to write Chinese and so, bright as I may be, two weeks of class is not going to cover the at-least-three-years-of-reading-and-writing the rest of the class has on me.
None of that seemed to matter to the new teacher and I was the first one she called upon to do any reading or writing exercise. Now, I've been a teacher in China long enough to understand that this tough love is considered a sigh of great affection from a Chinese teacher, however, I was there to learn and simply could not with the constant barrage of, "Wrong. Class, what did she do wrong THIS time?" Frankly, it got so bad even my socially inept classmates simply stopped responding to her questions to open up her berating of me. Tough love teachers simply shut me down. I am unable to function in a "tough love" classroom if I am granted no respite. And, this started to damage my ability to speak Chinese. I lost more Chinese taking that class than I learned. The confidence that class killed makes it difficult to go out in the morning and simply do what I've always normally done. So, as I caught myself making excuses and hedging my lifestyle simply to avoid speaking Chinese because the class made me feel stupid, I decided to quit. Frankly, I am the only person who can take care of me here and the last thing I need is to be housebound with agoraphobia.
And the day I quit, I was invited to a party.
I have made a lot of friends in the French contingent of Xi'An. In fact, none of my close foreign friends here speak English natively. Most of them speak French and a few of them speak German. One of my favorite French men invited me to his and his Chinese wife's home for a party with their other friends.
And then I realized I have grown into my age. I was at last at a party of similarly aged people (for the first time, not significantly older) with whom I felt comfortable socially.
As the party began, I noticed I was getting a bit of extra attention from a new Xi'An arrival. He was boisterous and there with his beautiful girlfriend but none of that seemed to stop him from constantly looking to and speaking with the more subdued me. At first I thought nothing of it and figured it was merely a social boy being social but after a while it became clear I really was getting extra attention.
A bit of the way through the party and after two sets of couples were there, a third showed up (always couples here!). We were all chatting when the new couple entered. The woman was a fireball, instantly the "life of the party," and the only other American there. She was everything I dread about being at a party with women my age; she was loud, confident in that naive 20-something way, overtly sexual and non-stop. She is the archetype that walks into a party and instantly has all the men captivated while the rest of us mere mortal females seem to vanish into the background. I was certain at her arrival, this attention I was being lavished with would evaporate.
However, it was not so at this party. She showed up, was her fiery self and none of the men much noticed. Everyone was lovely and social with her but she did not captivate the room the way I am accustomed to seeing. In fact, the lovely French man lavishing me with attention and with whom I would most certainly have gone home had his girlfriend not been in existence, did not miss a beat with me. My platonic interest for the evening acknowledged the fireball within the limits of propriety but kept his eyes on me the whole time. Whenever he had a free moment, he found his way to me to talk and towards the end of the evening clearly settled himself down with me for a long discussion. It was the first time in a very long time I had the very clear message that while he was absolutely physically attracted to me, he was most interested in my conversation. Granted, he is one I can never be alone with for obvious, messy reasons but the affirmation that he wanted to be with me above all others was really lovely.
Frankly, it made me miss Bill. My platonic interest was quietly aggressive in seeking out my discussion and unwavering in his pursuit of me the way Bill had been. In spite of myself and in spite of the clear message of not contacting me during his most recent trip here, I missed Bill most acutely at that party. I was reminded of a lesson in my introductory art history class about the importance of what is missing from art. Often, the absence of a single thing that would fit best within an image is stronger than the foregone conclusions of its presence.
I am insufferable sap.
I missed that about me.
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