The day after my return from my Kunming, Chunhong called to say that
my Thursday classes were going to be moved to another day as my Waiban
(Foreign Affairs Office) was taking me to Nanjing on a field trip of
sorts. Early Thursday morning, I met ten members of the Waiban and a
21-year-old Japanese woman, Mari, whose hometown also has a Sister City
Exchange with Yangzhou. We drove the hour and a half to NanjingÍs
Friendship Hotel where there was an exhibit celebrating twenty years of
Sister City Exchange partnerships from all over Jiangsu Province. The
exhibit was mostly unremarkable with the exception of a picture of my
colleague Todd Parker teaching a class at Yangzhou Affiliated Middle
School from last year and an inscribed silver bowl from the town of
Westport, CT. I did also note, however, that a town in Washington State
was building an exact replica of a Chinese garden in their town square,
a gift given to them by the people of Suzhou, their Sister City. It made
me question WestportÍs decision not to accept the pagoda given to them
by the city of Yangzhou due to aesthetic and human rights violation
concerns.
 After lunch in the hotel, we drove to The Rape of Nanjing Memorial.
From December, 1937, to January, 1938, Japanese soldiers celebrated
their taking of the Chinese capital by pillaging the city, raping
thousands of Chinese woman, young and old, and killing upwards of
300,000 innocent civilians. The irony of visiting this memorial with a
young Japanese woman was certainly not lost on me.
 The memorial in and of itself was quite impressive. IÍve seen many
Holocaust memorials and this one certainly can compare: large stone
monuments of fallen, dejected Chinese, symbolic body parts such as heads
decapitated by Japanese swords set in stone, actual human bones piled on
top of each other, and artifacts from the horrific month-long campaign.
One of the members of the Waiban delegation began speaking fairly good
English to me, a surprise to me since he hadnÍt spoken to me all day.
Although he made several grammatical mistakes, he seemed determined to
convey to me the import of this event; another Waiban member stuck
closely to Mari for the entire visit, speaking slowly in Chinese to her
and making sure that she understood everything that he said. ñI grew up
in Nanjingî, my guide said to me, ñWhen I was boy, we play games like
all little boys and would dig up the ground to make forts. Many times we
find human bones.î  I looked from the human remains on display to his
weathered face and tried to imagine him as a small boy. ñJapanese was
taught to see Chinese like insectsƒ like dogsƒ Two Japanese soldiers one
time had competition to see how many Chinese they can kill in one day.
They both kill more than 100 each.î Throughout our viewing of the
exhibits, which had signs posted requesting ñSolemn Silence and
Respectî, I paid close attention to the Chinese men in our group, who
moved silently from display to display, occasionally chuckling nervously
with each other to break the tension that permeated the hall.
I wondered both what Mari was being told by her guide and how she was
reacting. I felt a sense of pity, or rather empathy, for her, but I also
knew that Japanese schoolchildren were rarely taught to take
responsibility for JapanÍs role in World War II. Part of me was glad she
was here, being educated about this unfathomable event in her countryÍs
history.
 After an hour spent at the Memorial, we got back in our van for the
ride back to Yangzhou. ñJasonî, the young Chinese man from the Waiban
who spoke excellent English, Mari, and I sat silently in the back seat
for the first twenty minutes. We didnÍt say a word to each other. I
knew, however, that I would rarely have such an opportunity to probe the
Japanese psyche in regard to their whitewashing of history. ñAre you
tired?î, I asked Mari to break the uncomfortable silence. She looked at
me. ñNoî, she said, seeming at a loss for words. ñRiben ren bu hao leî,
she offered. (ñThe Japanese people were badî) ñYesî, I responded, ñBad
boysî. We both laughed nervously. After another minute, I said, ñDid you
learn about this in school?î She crinkled her eyebrows, appearing either
not to understand my English or not wanting to answer. ñI read in book
on my ownî, she answered. Without further prompting, she said, ñItÍs
like Nagasaki and Hiroshima.î She was clearly on the defensive which in
turn put me on the defensive. ñYes, those were awful. As was Pearl
Harbor.î, I rejoined immediately.  I was a bit surprised at my own
chauvinism. ñHave you ever been to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Memorials?î, I asked. She looked very sad, not introspective, but rather
determined as one would appear if one was constructing a large wall.
She couldnÍt look me in the eye. ñYes, it is like this memorialî, she
said, waving her hand behind her in the direction of Nanjing, still not
looking at me. ñIÍd like to see them some dayî, I responded by way of
peace offering. I told her of some American military acquaintances of
mine who were in Japan when Hirohito died. They were drinking beer in a
bar while all of the customers sat glued to the television, watching a
retrospective of HirohitoÍs life. When they showed clips of Pearl
Harbor, the Japanese clapped and hollered. In turn, when they showed the
bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima and the crowd fell silent, my three
friends clapped and cheered. ñI didnÍt like Hirohitoî, she said
suddenly. ñI didnÍt like everyone being so sad when he died.î Finally,
she turned to look at me. ñThere is no nation of people who are all
badî, I said. ñNo Japanese who were all bad, nor Germans, nor Americans,
not Chinese who are all bad. But war certainly does bring out the worst
in people.î She nodded to me then in acknowledgment.
 The next evening I was invited to another ñP.T.A. Banquetî, as IÍve
come to refer to them, wherein wealthy parents take all of their childÍs
teachers out for an expensive meal in a local restaurant to show their
appreciation. As the rice wine bottles were brought to the table, I
physically shuddered, remembering the recent evening with my colleagues
after which I ended up praying to the porcelain god. I told Chunhong, my
translator for the evening, that I wasnÍt really in the mood to drink
much that night.  She assured me that I should drink only as much as I
wanted, a very slightly pained expression accompanying this declaration
to remind me that I should at least drink some alcohol so as to please
the host. When I saw the frequency with which the host was raising
toasts, however, I knew that I could be in trouble. I merely sipped at
my shot glass and tried to cover my deception by trying out some Chinese
phrases and having Chunhong translate amusing anecdotes from the
classroom.
Eventually, I noticed how red-faced the host was becoming, a short,
thin, sprightly gentleman who giggled frequently, his wife smiling
dutifully across the table. He asked me where I was from in the U.S. and
proceeded to tell me of his frequent business trips to the States,
assuring me that perhaps we could do some business when he was in New
York. He started to tell me about one time when he was in Las Vegas,
Chunhong only temporarily stumbling over words such as ñslot machineî,
ñcasinoî, and ñblackjackî. Rather abruptly, our host stood up to
emphasize a point he was making. ñHe says that he played $15 on a slot
machine and he won. He won $3,000.î, Chunhong reported. The host began
making siren-like noises and giggling. He pointed to the lights in the
banquet room and started to indicate flashing signals with his hands.
Then he looked right at me and made further hand signals, almost of
leaves falling gently to the ground. ñWhat do you call the paper that
falls to the ground during a parade? IÍve forgottenî, Chunhong asked me.
ñConfettiî, I answered. ñYes, confetti. There was confetti.î I laughed
then with this man, his cheeks red and his glasses falling to the tip of
his nose, and offered him a toast, again taking a quick sip and hoping
that no one would notice.
Soon after, I watched a Dean from ChunhongÍs office, who was sitting
next to me, pour the last of the rice wine into his and the hostÍs glass
after which he refilled them both with mineral water. As the evening
drew to a close, the Dean raised a final toast to me and lifted his
glass, indicating that I should ñgambeiî or ñbottoms upî. Instead of
lifting my glass, I pointed to his glass and said in Chinese, ñZhe shi
sui!î (ñThis is waterî) I then watched the reaction of his colleagues
across the table from us as if in slow motion. Their grins widened
incredulously and they laughed hysterically, slapping each other on the
back and making sure that each and the other had understood what I had
said. I then looked at the Dean, rather tentatively, realizing that my
antics may have caused him to lose face. He smiled good-naturedly at me,
downed his water, and then poured half of my glassÍs contents into his
and we shared a toast. To signal the end of the dinner, the hostÍs wife
produced gift boxes and gave everyone at the table a red-stoned
necklace. We all then went out into the first drizzle of the evening and
departed on our bicycles, the neon lights of Wen He Road reflecting from
the first puddles that formed and then gave way under our glistening
bicycle tires.
 A few days later I came across my first inklings of dissent. I will not
name the person with whom I spoke nor the occasion of our meeting so as
to protect him. He was a Middle School teacher from a nearby school. He
had been teaching English for nearly twenty years but evidence of his
long years in the classroom did not appear either on his forehead or
around his eyes. His eyes grew wide to provide emphasis as he told me of
his experience in the Chinese educational system. ñCan you keep a
secret?î he asked after a round of small talk. I assured him I could. ñI
hate to follow the official line in my classroom. I want to teach the
students what I think is important. Most of what I must teach is not
important.î I was taken back by his forthrightness. ñI cannot help them
to become, how would you say it, well-rounded members of society, I
suppose. I want to teach them to be real people, real thinkersî, he
continued. ñMy son is in Senior 3, his final year before university. I
hate to see how hard he must work, just to pass the entrance
examination. I wish I had some say in what he is taught, but I donÍt.î I
nodded, trying in my mind to do a quick analysis of his educational
system versus the United States system. ñAmericans are allowed to say
what they feel. What IÍm saying to you could have gotten me arrested
just a few years ago. Do you hear what I am saying?î I nodded again. I
had heard.
 On Sunday afternoon, Lucy, Ball and Avery stopped by for a late lunch.
Lucy and Ball arrived early to decorate the apartment. Avery had come in
second in a National Exam in Physics and they wanted to throw him a
congratulatory party. They spelled ñWelcomeî with pink letters they had
cut out and taped on my door and hung balloons and posters while I biked
to Kentucky Fried Chicken to pick up some food. When I returned, Avery
had already arrived. We ate chicken burgers and cole slaw while catching
up on the past week. ñMr. Frayî, said Avery between sips of his coke,
ñHow do they choose class monitors in your classroom in America?î He
looked momentarily taken off guard when I explained that class monitors
do not exist as such in the American educational system. ñWell,î he
continued, ñLast year, my class elected me to be class monitor and I
take my job very seriously.î He put down his chicken burger to make his
next point. ñAnd so when the teacher was out of the room and the class
makes too much noise, I stand and I say ïBe quiet! Do your work!Í And
some students placed blame to me for this and so this year, they elected
another boy to be class monitor. Do you think this is fair?î I do my
best to reassure him that unfortunately some people become jealous of
people who take their job seriously and try to do a good job. He seemed
satisfied with this answer.
 Next, Lucy, who was still reeling from embarrassment at having been
called to the Dean for sending me the alarmist ïHelpÍ message on my
email, asked if IÍd told anyone that they were coming over to my
apartment today. ñWell,î I responded, ñI did mention to some teachers
that I was having some students over today.î She and Ball nearly dropped
their sandwiches and looked at each other, wide-eyed and
terror-stricken. ñWhat!î says Lucy. ñBut Mr. Fray, we will get in
trouble!î I then sat there perplexed, for I had been assured that there
was no harm in having students over to my apartment. ñBut I didnÍt tell
them which students, Lucy. Really, donÍt worry.î Her shoulders dropped
and her eyes retreated to a pensive posturing. She began to speak
slowly. ñMr. Fray, in China, teachers may think one thing, but they do
anotherƒ Do you know Deng Xiaoping?î  ñOf course,î I asserted ñBefore
him,î Lucy continued, ñyou could get in trouble for talking to a
foreigner. People were afraid to talk to a foreigner.î I then told them
all of my years in the Soviet Union, being followed by K.G.B. and always
looking over my shoulder. ñAnd what do you think of Chairman Mao, Lucy?î
I asked. She thinks for a quick second and then responded. ñChairman Mao
was very good at tearing up old things but not so good at building up
new things.î She paused once again and then seemed to choose her next
words more carefully. ñChairman Mao was a great leader,î she concluded
with conviction.
 After lunch, it was my turn to fulfill my end of an agreement IÍd made
with Lucy. A couple of weeks earlier, she asked me if I knew the song
ñTell Himî, the new duet by Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand. ñSure,î
IÍd said. ñIÍve even seen the video on TV at home.î ñWell, I really love
this song Mr. Fray. Would you please sing this duet with me? We could
learn the words and sing them.î I had thought about this for a moment.
ñAnd which part would I sing?î IÍd asked tentatively. ñI want to be
Celine!î Lucy had exclaimed without hesitation, her entire face lighting
up as it always does when she wants to emphasize a point or an opinion.
ñSure,î I thought to myself, ñItÍs your lot in life to be the aging
Diva, Chrisƒî ñOf course IÍll sing the song with you,î IÍd said, almost
but not quite regretting the decision after IÍd spoken the words. And so
Lucy now gave her video camrecorder to Ball and I gave mine to Avery,
explaining to him the zoom focus and other features of the camera. IÍd
typed up the words on my laptop the night before, but hadnÍt really had
time to memorize them. After one run-through, I hit ñplayî on the tape
and we began.
 ñIÍm scared, so afraid to show I careƒî, Lucy began, seeming to be
doing her best to remain as impassive as possible at the songÍs start so
that she can later launch into full divadom as the song progressed.
ñIÍve been there, with my heart out in my handƒî I joined in with my
first lines. My part in this song is to reassure the younger woman that
love is worth the risk, no matter how painful. IÍve told Lucy and Ball
that I canÍt possibly sing Barbra with a ñmanÍsî voice, but theyÍd
remained unconvinced. We break into our first duet: ñTell him, tell him
that the sun and moon rise in his eyesĔ Lucy has asked me to be
expressive, using my hands and body when I sing. In Asia, Americans are
often perceived as being free and easy with their gestures and emotions.
ñHold him close to youƒî I harmonized, my arms hugging my shoulders.
Lucy didnÍt even break a smile. I knew that if my friends could see me
right now, theyÍd be on the floor, clutching their sides in hysterics,
no sound emitting from their larynxes as their air passages would have
been compromised by both laughter and oxygen working at cross purposes.
Lucy was very serious about this song and so I suppressed every urge to
join my invisible friends down on the floor laughing. Finally we arrived
at the last note and held it even longer than Celine and Barbra. When I
played back the video segment that Avery has captured, Lucy began a
serious critique, offering how we might have done a better job. I agreed
with her on nearly every point except when she suggested that I shook my
jaw too much. To this I took personal offense, but said nothing.
ñPlease, Mr. Fray, can we do it just one more time? And will you be even
more expressive this time?î she begged with a look that by now sheÍs
learned I canÍt possibly refuse. And so in my best Barbra, I turned to
Avery and Ball and said, ñWell, you heard Celine, get moving! WeÍre
gonna do it again, boys!!î Avery and Ball looked at each other slyly,
smiling with both mouths and eyes, and prepared for the second shoot.
 On Tuesday, I had my usual Office Hours followed by a lecture entitled
ñForeign Language Instruction in the U.S.î, which I was giving to over a
hundred English Teachers from the Yangzhou area. Mrs. Ding, our English
Department Head, put up a sign around campus that read, ñWelcome To The
Lecture By Mr. Fray, Famous Visiting Scholar From The United States.î
What a hoot! Well, I can dream. In any event, before the lecture, I met
with about twelve students in my office that had come to speak English.
Sometimes I speak to them about a specific topic, but this time, I led
an open discussion with them asking me any question they wanted.
ñArcadiaî began with a question relating to ñpansyî. ñThe flower?î I
asked, sensing what I thought at first was her hesitancy about her
English ability. ñNo,î she continued, clearly frustrated at the
misunderstanding and yet determined to be understood. ñUmƒ Lesbian?î she
said.   ñOh, I seeî, I told her. I hadnÍt really expected this topic to
be broached during my stay in China. WhatÍs more, I had just received an
email that morning about Matthew Shepard, the Laramie, WY student who
had been robbed and severely beaten, his small body flapping like a
scarecrow in the brisk Wyoming winds. I stumbled a bit, wondering if she
had guessed that IÍm a gay man. ñWell, homosexuality is more open in the
United States than in China,î I began. I told her and the assembled
students some vague generalizations about gay men and lesbians in the
United States. I was careful, however, to carefully tread the fine line
between answering a question that might have deep personal significance
for Arcadia while respecting my role as a visiting educator who must
respect the social mores of Chinese society. As I spoke, I thought of
Matt Shepard and my own two experiences being gay bashed. One time I
ended up in Massachusetts General Hospital for the evening and the other
time, I spent a week sequestered in my Russian colleaguesÍ bunk room on
an American fishing boat, a knife clutched under my pillow each night as
I slept. I was faced with the age-old dilemma of the political also
being personal and the costs involved in oneÍs keeping silent. But I
also knew my audience and was able to satisfy their curiosity in a way
which I felt was responsible and yet enlightening.
The lecture to the English teachers of Yangzhou was well attended and
seemed well received. That evening, I prepared a PowerPoint
demonstration for that weekÍs lessons. I planned to teach my classes two
songs using PowerPoint presentation software to both expose them to the
technology and to have some fun singing in class. I chose John DenverÍs
ñSunshine (On My Shoulder)î and the CarpenterÍs ñClose To Youî, two
relatively unknown songs by American artists who have long been
appreciated in China. As I culled some John Denver fan web sites on my
laptop that evening, I realized that it been a year to the day that John
had gone sailing in his glider off the side of that cliff into the Great
Beyond. And we all know what happened to poor Karen Carpenterƒ I
introduced the lesson by talking about John DenverÍs affinity for the
Mid-West and about the problem of anorexia and bulimia among American
teenage girls. Then we all sang and the students really loved it.
The next evening, Lao Zhu, my neighbor from across the hall who also
teaches Political Science here at the Middle School, came knocking at my
door at about 6pm. He was all excited. In his hands was his latest find
from his trip to Nanjing over the weekend. As I examined the small,
CD-sized box he handed to me with Bill Clintons face plastered on the
cover, he started to imitate me imitating Bill Clinton from a few weeks
before. He bent his head and started bowing in all directions: ñIÍm
sorry. IÍm sorry. IÍm sorryî He then started in on his low-pitch chuckle
that by now had become familiar and comfortable to me. ñWhoa, ho, ho,î
he said, ñLa-win-cheeƒ La-win-cheeƒ Whoa, ho, hoî   ñLewinsky?î I asked
him. ñYes, yes, yesƒî  He walked into my kitchen, an ash from his
cigarette butt falling to the floor. ñYes, yes, yes, dis is Cleenton
talking to the American Jury.î And sure enough, it was.
Next, he brought over his VCD player for me to watch the jury
proceedings. The Chinese have veritably skipped over VCR technology
since the average Chinese person could not afford one when the
technology became available. Due to ChinaÍs ties to Japan and the
emergence of the ñNew Chinaî, however, many Chinese people now have a
VCD player connected to the family television that allows them to see
movies and concerts on a disk thatÍs the size of a regular CD. For the
next two days, I popped popcorn in my microwave and watched Bill Clinton
finesse the Grand Jury and, mostly, the public. ItÍs a strange situation
to be an American in China at a time like this. Clinton is enormously
popular here right now due to his historic visit to China in June of
this year. And yet the Chinese remain curiously mum on the subject of
his behavior over the past year. The most IÍve been told is that they
know that Mao and other high ranking Chinese officials invariably had
their dalliances with assorted women, but that they think the Chinese
people would be upset with Jiang Zemin if he had behaved as Clinton has.
But as is typically Chinese, the Chinese people IÍve spoken with are
close-lipped about exactly how they feel about the situation.
On Thursday of that week, my friends Dennis and Mark came for a quick
visit to Yangzhou from Suzhou as we were all planning to travel to
Shanghai together on that Saturday. They accompanied me to my classes on
Friday and quickly became the latest local celebrities. As Mark is 6Í6î
and Dennis has nine brothers and sisters, they had the attention of the
students simply be walking in the door and being introduced. True, their
singing is not much better than mine as IÍd learned from their karaoke
war stories, but they helped me with my PowerPoint lessons and all
turned out well. During Friday Office Hours, a group of about fifteen
students accompanied the three of us to the local Kentucky Fried
Chicken. The students loved the new ratio of American to Chinese and
greedily practiced their English after they had gotten up the nerve to
talk to the two strangers. As we finished our chicken burgers and cokes,
Lucy said to me, ñMr. Fray, please can we sing the ïClose To YouÍ song
again?î Again, Lucy knows what a sucker I am for her pleading eyes. I
took out some extra lyric sheets I had brought along, passed them
around, and we ended the meal with stardust in our eyes and moonbeams in
our hair.
Early Saturday morning, the three of us hopped a bus to Shanghai and
arrived in the early afternoon. The temperature in Shanghai was still
rather warm and we weaved through the cityÍs multitudes with our
backpacks strapped over our t-shirts to our old standby, the Wu Gong
Hotel. The weekend was low-key and pleasant. We found some great Tex-Mex
at a recently revamped restaurant, the Coronas tasting particularly good
as we sat out on the back patio. That evening, we tried a different
disco than the one from our last visit, but it was a bust. I knew we
were in trouble when the taxi let us off and I realized that the disco
was downstairs from a McDonalds. What should have been its peak hour for
crowds had no more than a dozen or so people staring at the dance floor.
Dennis had us all laughing as he began his ñOh no, weÍre in real trouble
nowî monologue when they actually brought a ladder out on the dance
floor and began changing a strobe light. A flustered manager soon after
came over to us, thanked us for coming, and offered each of us a cigar.
We pocketed the cigars and raised our complimentary beers in a toast to
more eventful evenings to come in Shanghai.
The next day, the three of us went hotel shopping for a blow-out weekend
in the future before I have to go back to the States in January. We
feasted on Western food and just combed the shopping streets, relaxing.
I said goodbye to them in the afternoon as they had to get back to
Suzhou. Then I stayed behind and tried to pass the time, eagerly
awaiting the arrival of my mother, my Aunt Theresa and Chip in Shanghai
the next evening.