YANGZHOU IMPRESSIONS #7


 My new friend from the ferry crossing, whom IÍve named ñFaithfulî,
calls me on Tuesday morning and we arrange to have dinner together
Wednesday evening. On Tuesday, afternoon, however, after Office Hours, I
ride my bike to West Slender Lake Park on a whim. ItÍs the kind of a
cool, crisp New England autumn day that makes me want to walk in no
particular direction for hours on end. Once inside the park, I read a
plaque on how the Emperor from the Ming Dynasty had designated the
Willow as a Yangzhou city landmark. Rows of willows, shorter in stature
than those we have in the West, bend over gently on the banks of West
Slender Lake, their branches gently skimming the surface as a light
breeze blows.
 I turned off the main path and paid a woman 8 yuan (@ $1) to go inside
a fenced off area where peacocks lounge on tree branches, not bothering
to squawk when I get too close. I then wander further up a hill and see
an abandoned amusement park. I finally find some workers who are sitting
down having a cigarette by the hall of mirrors. ñGuan men, bu guan men
ma?î (ñClosed or open?î), I ask. They assure me itÍs open, but I wander
down another path to some greenhouses and poke around before exiting out
into the main park surrounding the lake.
 I hear music. I climb the steep 24-step bridge and come to an outdoor
stage where a folk group is performing Chinese traditional peasant folk
dances. I watch for a while and then move on to an open stage in front
of a small edifice on an incline of a hill. Two actors are performing
some vignettes from Peking Opera and only the old timers and I stand by
to watch. I then walk past the boats offering half-hour rides for sale
and stop in at souvenir stands to have a quick look. But itÍs the
weather that draws me here today. For a moment, IÍm walking in the
autumn colors and breezes of my beloved New England.
 The next day, I wear my authentic Soviet sailorÍs suit to my classes.
The kids are clapping and hootinÍ before IÍm even in the door. We have a
lesson on the history and traditions of Halloween and I even use my
laptop to show the class an animated file of kids trick-or-treating that
was sent to me be my colleague Todd Parker. I then explain that if any
student dresses up in a costume, he or she can come to my apartment on
Saturday night from 8pm-9pm to collect candy. I use some of the students
to exhibit what costumes they might consider wearing: ñAnd you might be
a scary ghostî, I say, pointing to one young boy. ñAnd you, you could be
a clown. And you, how about Chairman Mao?î The kids laugh. ñAnd this
young man, why donÍt you dress as Bill Clinton, and you young lady,î I
say, pointing at a shy young girl with glasses who canÍt meet my gaze,
ñWhy donÍt you dress up as Monica Lewinsky?î At this, the class roars
and I hope I havenÍt embarrassed anyone too much.
 That evening, Faithful and I are joined at a fish restaurant by his
colleague and his colleagueÍs girlfriend, an attractive young woman
named Wendy Ding. We dig into a Mongolian Hot Pot, the stares and
whispering of other diners gradually becoming a white noise of sorts.
WendyÍs English is clearly better than FaithfulÍs and she tells me that
I am welcome anytime at the JingLing Xi Hotel where she works and sheÍd
even arrange for me to do free karaoke. I thank her as I search around
in the Hot Pot for more of those tasty critters that are much better
than the eel and frog. After I finish my beer, they laugh, telling me
that my face has turned red. I donÍt order any more beer.
 As we depart, Wendy gives me her business card and tells me sheÍd
welcome my call at any time. Faithful and I head off on our bikes in the
opposite direction and Faithful begins trying to convince me to stop off
at the AA Disco with him. ItÍs Wednesday night at 8pm, I have early
classes and I politely beg off. But Faithful is insistent. In his
wandering English, he seems to have a rebuttal for every excuse I give.
Finally, out of pity, I agree to go for ña half hour, no more, Faithfulî
and he smiles and says, ñI pay, I payî.
 The entrance to the disco has all manner of characters hanging around
outside and I wonder if IÍm still in nice, provincial little Yangzhou.
Women wear miniskirts and make-up on top of their make-up.  The young
men dress up gangster-like, their hair slicked back, a suit, tie and
obligatory shiny black shoes. I donÍt worry about my ratty blue jeans
and slightly ripe black T-shirt as Faithful pays the entrance fee,
figuring IÍm just here to watch the show.
 The ñshowî isnÍt scheduled to begin until sometime after 9pm, so
Faithful and I grab a back corner table which affords us a panoramic
view of the bar, the dance floor and the arriving clientele. A waitress
brings us two cokes and Faithful lights one of his English cigarettes.
ItÍs quite an impressive establishment, much more modern, hip and
well-preserved than the other Yanghzou disco I had visited with my
colleague Annie. I note the young couples sitting at their tables,
drinking beers, smoking cigarettes, many with their arms wrapped around
each other. ñAre these university students, Faithful?î, I ask. ñNo,
these are workman.î Our waitress then informs us that the dancing will
begin in about ten minutes.
 I ask Faithful about his family, knowing that he has a wife and a
thirteen-year-old son. He tells me that he is 43 and that his parents,
both 87, are still alive and living in Yangzou. He has two sisters and a
brother who are anywhere from 15 to 22 years older than he is. ñI guess
youÍre parents were not expecting to have another babyî, I offer. He
tells me that his mother had ñdry breastsî at his birth and so he had to
drink bottled milk. As he talks, FaithfulÍs head involuntarily shifts
back and forth from the DJ booth where the show is getting ready to
begin. I then notice some scantily clad Chinese woman gathering around
the DJ booth and a singer with a microphone begins some karaoke. ñI
donÍt understand words because it from South. Music from Hong Kong. But
I can see it is love song.î I nod and listen to the man who has quite a
beautiful voice.
 While the man sings, Faithful looks pensive. ñI live this, this
Cultural Revolution,î he states very plain and matter-of-fact. His eyes
are on the young people sitting around cocktail tables, drinking,
smoking and laughing. ñWas it bad for you?î I ask. He scrunches up his
handsome face in his best attempt to convey disdain. ñYes, yes, yes.
Very bad. My father was  teacher here in Yangzhou.î. ñDid they beat
him?î I ask. He turns his gaze briefly from the dry ice that is being
tested on the dance floor for when the show begins. ñYes, yes, they beat
him,î he says. ñWho, the students?î I ask. ñYes, yes, the students. And
I only 13 years old and they try to beat me but I run away.î He briefly
crouches under our table with his arms in front of his face to imitate
how he defended himself.
 At this point, two go-go girls climb on top of  the bars and begin to
dance as the music gradually heats up. One is wearing a full-length
tight red leather dress. The other one, the best dancer of the lot,
about whom certain of my friends would say ïNow THAT Miss Thing can
shake itÍ, wears black skin-tight shiny leather pants and a black and
white striped sleeveless muscle shirt, her gyrating midriff exposed for
Faithful to follow, mesmerized.
After a lost minute or so, Faithful is back. ñMy father, they put aƒî He
simulates putting on a hat with his hands. I motion with my hands the
outline of a dunce cap. ñYes, yes, yes!!î His eyes light up, knowing
that I have a good understanding of much of what occurred in China
during the period of his youth. He continues speaking to me, but his
eyes do not leave the go-go dancers and the dried ice and the DJ coaxing
everyone to get up and dance. ñAnd he not allowed home. They keep him.
And I bring him meals. My mother sick and my brothers and sisters in
countryside working.î He then picks up a matchbook from the table, folds
it up and simulates slipping it inside something else. ñI not do this,î
he says looking at me briefly. ñA note?Í I ask, ñyou didnÍt put a note
inside with the meal?î He looks at me again for a quick second and then
stares at the two new go-go dancers whoÍve climbed on top of the bar.
ñYes, yes,î he continues, ñThat no good. It cause trouble.î
Just then, the DJ invites everyone up for the first hot dance song of
the night, and the twenty-somethings all simultaneously abandon their
tables and are herded through the aisles up to the two-story dance
floor. The DJ is now up on top of the bar with all four go-go girls and
heÍs singing the song into the mike and waving his free arm in
horizontal circles. I can tell IÍm losing Faithful as his eyes sit
transfixed on the unfolding scene.
ñHow does your father feel about the Cultural Revolution now,
Faithful?î. He doesnÍt respond and I have to repeat my question. ñOh, my
father? He a very good man. Peaceful man. He understands. He forgive
them.î Before losing him again, I quickly insert, ñAnd your mother?î He
scrunches up his face again. ñMy mother? She very angry.î He shakes his
head in mock disdain and I canÍt tell if itÍs his disdain for his mother
or her disdain for the worries and heartache caused her by the Cultural
Revolution. ñAnd my father, he wear this sign on his arm,î He motions
with his right hand to simulate an armband on his left arm. ñAnd what
did it sayî, I ask, gently. ñIt say anti-revolutionaryî.
The dancing is in full-gear now. We watch while I sip my coke and
Faithful smokes another English cigarette. After an uncomfortable
silence, I say, trying not to shout too loudly above the music,
ñFaithful, you never had anything like this when you were younger, did
you?î. He smiles briefly at me; clearly he has not understood my
question, but he smiles deliberately nonetheless. I smile back and he
goes right back to gazing out at the dance floor, a mixture of
fascination and regret taking over his boyish features.
 On Friday, nine students show up for my regular ñOffice Hoursî and we
decide to ride our bikes to a local restaurant for lunch and
conversation. The electricity is out in the restaurant we choose.
Candles burn on each of the establishmentÍs tables and I tell the
students that this is the perfect atmosphere for a day-before-Halloween
lunch. To get the conversation going, I ask the students what they want
to be when they grow up. Several of the students say that they want to
be lawyers and when I ask why, they say that the Chinese legal system is
a mess, that it needs revamping and that they want to be of service in
this manner when they get older. Before they answer, however, they look
at each other conspiratorially and then choose their words carefully.
ñDorothyî says she wants to be a newspaper editor. When I ask her why,
she says that she likes editing and that ChinaÍs newspapers are in ñpoor
conditionî and that she wants to make a difference in this way. Two
students said they want to be doctors, one a surgeon. Finally,
precocious little Linda says: ñAfter IÍve been an interpreter for a
while, I would like to help my friend who is going to be a doctor. I
want to help him with ñA-I-D-Sî. She spells out each letter very
deliberately. ñWhy does this interest you, Linda? China doesnÍt seem to
have a large problem with AIDS at this point,î I state. ñYes, but itÍs a
big problem in the world and China cannot ignore it. If itÍs the worldÍs
problem, then itÍs also ChinaÍs problem.î
 Later, as we ride home from the restaurant, Linda says to me, ñIÍm not
like other Chinese children. For example, I love doing Chinese
calligraphy and many other Chinese children hate it. Also, I love
basketball and most of the other girls donÍt like it. I think IÍm very
unusual for a Chinese.î
 The next afternoon, Halloween, as IÍm preparing my apartment for
trick-or-treaters, thereÍs a knock on my door. ItÍs Miranda, one of my
more personable students with a student I donÍt recognize. Miranda tells
me that this is a friend from another middle school and that sheÍd like
me to give her friend an English name. After deciding on ñAutumnî,
Miranda unrolls a large scroll on which sheÍs done some beautiful
calligraphy work. ñMiranda, this is gorgeous! How did you do it?î ñI
made it for your birthday next week, Mr. Fray. ItÍs an ancient Chinese
poem. You know, I have to stand for three hours to do this. No sitting.î
After thanking her profusely and marveling over her truly wonderful
work, she says to me out of the blue, ñMy grandparents live in the U.S.î
IÍm quite surprised and press her for more information. They had left
China many years ago, leaving MirandaÍs mother and an aunt behind. ñWhy
didnÍt they take your Mother and aunt with them?î I ask, trying to
appear innocuously curious. Miranda looks sideways at Autumn and gives
an awkward smile. ñPolitical reasons,î she says She tells me she met
them once when they came to Hong Kong and that her parents write to
them. ñAnd why canÍt you go to see them?î I ask, not sure if IÍm
overstepping my bounds. Miranda giggles nervously. ñPolitical reasons,î
she says. I change the subject, but she says that she wants to come to
the U.S. one day.
 About a half-hour before the trick-or-treaters are due, thereÍs a knock
on my door. ItÍs ñJack Blueî, one of my students and a class monitor as
well. I put him straight to work as I havenÍt a minute to lose. While
weÍre making candy bags, he tells me that he wishes he wasnÍt so shy,
that he thinks his English isnÍt good enough for him to speak to me. I
reassure him that I can perfectly understand everything he says and that
he seems to understand me as I rush around the apartment to get ready,
blathering on at my normal clipped rate. When he leaves to get on his
costume, IÍm struck by how anxious most of my students are about ñlosing
faceî while speaking English to me and how much, in fact, theyÍre
underestimating their abilities.
 To Chinese children, trick-or-treating is not merely stopping by for
some candy. Halloween to them means a party and I was the unsuspecting
host. Before I knew what was happening,  fifty or sixty costumed
children were in my apartment and I found myself opening up closed rooms
and searching for hidden candy. Their costumes were wonderful and
included soldiers, ghosts, a rabbit, a gypsy, a pirate, a snowman, a
fairy princess, a ñWhite Hanged Ghost and a Black Hanged Ghostî and
several other innovative creations. The boys began to get rowdy and blew
up my birthday balloons and another boy was shooting Silly String all
over the apartment. I pulled out my camera and began to get snapshots.
 Just as I got out my camcorder, one my students, Mandy, said to me,
ñMr. Fray, do you remember when you were teaching us about Halloween in
America and you were telling us how we could dress up?î ñOf course,î I
answer, trying to check if my camcorder battery is full. ñWell, you
pointed at Shelly and said that she could be Monica Lewinsky, and I want
you to look at her now. She just arrived.î I then turn my attention to
the door to my apartment and in walks a vision to behold. Little, shy,
mousy Shelly with the glasses is now standing there in a full-length
white dress (no, not blue) with high heels, make-up and a very fancy
white hat with a red ribbon and a flowing veil. I am speechless. She
looks about 25 years old. I nearly fall to the ground. The students
delight in my reaction, laughing and clapping me on the back as my mouth
remains open. I have enough bearing to turn on my camcorder to interview
Ms. Lewinsky and IÍm still marveling when I turn off the camera.
 The rest of the party goes very well. Kids turn on the TV to watch
ñZorroî, others just sit and talk and everyone poses for my camera. Ball
shows up late with a younger cousin and I manage to scrape up some
lollipops for the two of them. Several students stay behind to help me
clean up. The nightÍs only casualties are my Birthday balloons, a set of
stolen birthday hats and the phone line, which someone accidentally
kicked out of the wall. All in all, as one of my students tells me as he
walks out the door, Silly String hanging from his costume, ña very nice
time for my first Halloween party!î