poops, giggles and huh?

"Oh, so you’re a missionary over there?" they usually ask me.

"No, I’m a teacher," I reply.

The puzzled look usually comes over their faces at this point.

"Yeah, but you just tell people that so that you can be a missionary in China without getting in trouble right?" Persistence. You gotta give these people credit for it.

"No, I’m really not a missionary. I’m a teacher. That’s all. It’s my job and I really like it."

"So why are you living in China then?"

I usually explain how I love the culture, the people, the language and the lifestyle there. They finally begin to understand but can’t figure out why anyone would voluntarily leave America to live in China unless they were (a.) there because they were trying to convert people or (b.) making more money there than in America. Either way, they’re sure it’s a huge sacrifice to live there. This situation usually presents itself to me more than a few times when I return home to America for a vacation.

To many Americans, the only life they’ve known must be the best one. At least one of my relatives has commented that anything American is better than anything Chinese.

"Tell that to your friends. America is better than China," he said.

Hmmm, I thought when he said it. It’s funny that you’re a Chinese American and yet you’re more in love with America than alot of white people I know.

It’s just not possible that there might be a better way or place to live life than the place and way I’m doing it now, they reason in their minds.

Newsflash! The American way is not the only way to live. It’s crazy, but you just might enjoy life in another place more than you do where you are now. In other news, the grass could be greener on the other side and it might be worth checking out.

I’ll admit it, my pay is less there than it was here. I miss my family and friends in America. I don’t have a car there. I do sometimes get frustrated with the language barrier in China. However, I love learning the language. I love the kids I work with. I enjoy my coworkers. I like the food there. Shopping is great. I like learning about the culture and history of China. I love the old stories and legends. I like the pace of life there. To me, the pros out way the cons. I enjoy my life there and feel like I’m doing something worthwile.

It’s not a sacrifice at all. To me, living in China is an upgrade.

"People like to read those little books with just a few pages in them," she said. "They don’t take much time and they have some short stories or thoughts."

"But Mom, when I write something that I’m going to sell, I want it to be something that’s high quality. Not something that I just put together to make a few bucks," I told her. "Those little coffee table books of inspirational quotes or Chicken Soup for the Soul are just plain junk."

All right, so I came off sounding self righteous. But, it’s true, I actually want to write something that’s worth reading. (This blog is not included in that statement because I don’t care if this is worth reading or not. This thing is just an easier way for me to keep a journal.)
I guess I think of writing as a craft or an art. Something that you have to work at really hard in order to be good at it. It should be something that you’re proud of. Someday, of course, I hope to write a published book of which I’ll be proud.  Books like, A Painted House, War Trash, Hearts in Atlantis, Man From The South….these are great stories. I want to write like that. I’m NOT going to a coffee table book writer. A coffee table book editor maybe, but not a writer.

"Stick ‘em up!" the cops shouted. "Stick ‘em up!" But it was impossible for the husband to obey this order without letting go of his wife, and had he done this she would either have fallen to the ground or would have been left dangling half in and half out of th ehouse, which is a terribly uncomfortable position for a woman. - Roald Dahl

People think that I must be a very strange person.
This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass
jar on my desk. - Stephen King

What does it take to be close to God? Sometimes I wonder. Do you sometimes feel like you’ll go through a period where you don’t feel him at all? Like you’re praying to something or someone who might not actually be there? And then sometimes you feel like you’re right in front of him and are looking him in the face. I go through that all the time.
Why is that? I guess part of it is obvious; I can’t see him and I can’t hear him. But then, I KNOW he’s there because I’ve felt that and seen things that could only have been him. So why can’t I have that feeling of his presence all the time? I think someone told me before that I needed to read the Bible more and then I would feel his presence. Tried that, doesn’t work. Someone told me I needed to pray more. That’s good but doesn’t always solve the problem. Hmm maybe this is the never ending question. I know this is a little deep for a blog. But it’s what I was thinking about today.

I went to stroke therapy with my dad today. He goes three times a week for a couple of hours each time. The therapists help him and coach him while he does various exercises for his right leg and arm. While I was waiting and reading a book in the waiting/sitting area, I noticed an older lady who must have been there waiting for her husband. I’m guessing she was about 70 years old or so. She was very soft spoken but pleasant and friendly with all the people there. She shuffled over to open the door for someone, she shuffled over to pour a cup of coffee for someone else, she passed a can of cashews to a friend of hers, etc. What made me notice her was her feet, or rather, her shoes. Actually they weren’t really shoes. They were these enormous bunny slippers. Evidently she feels right at home at that therapy place. Her feet had to be at least a size ten in mens. Either that or she just liked to wear big slippers. Anyway, I found myself wishing that I could have huge comfy slippers like that and wear them everywhere.
I’d probably name them. I don’t know what I’d name them, but I probably would. Ok, getting a little crazy. It must be time for bed.

Are you sure this is real
Could this be just a dream
It’s been so long I just don’t know

Last time I saw you leave
You were getting on a plane
We didn’t know it was goodbye

I tried to make you stay
Thought I was losing you
Funny how the opposite was true

I said I’d see you soon
You said we weren’t so far
Three months on a phone line was ok

Just a summer holiday
Could make us lose our faith
So should we try this once again

But here we are
And it’s been five years
The years are gone so now we’ll try again

It’s further now
It’s impossible
But that just means we’ll make it to the end
Again

The sea rolls in slowly, lazily. The sky is cloudy but calm. I’m walking on the sand next to the ocean. I’m alone. Behind me the rocky hills stick up into the clouds connecting the earth and the sky. The sand gives way under my feet,  absorbing the harshness of my feet striking the ground. Out farther on the ocean, way past the cliffs rising above the water, past where the few fishing ships sit idly, past the point where I can still disinguish waves, the sky blends with the water. They are one. From here, the water looks solid that far out. The clouds a few miles out, break for just a moment and I see the sun striking the sea like a flashlight pointed at a mirror.

Here on the beach the sand stretches ahead of me. Some seaweeds have washed ashore and hermit crabs scramble away for cover as I approach. The sand dunes rise and fall as though the sand is trying to imitate the waves on the sea.

I stop, listen and close my eyes. The way someone else must have a thousand years ago right here. I hear what he heard. The breeze flows around me and through my clothes, making me feel as though I had nothing on. He felt the emotions, the troubles, the questions, the good things, the faces and everything come to a stop. The wind and the waves, the sand and the water pushed away what it was that he had come to ask. It’s peaceful here. I forget the problem that drove me here. It blows out to sea.

I close my eyes and listen again. Hearing the answer…and the distant sounds of traffic back on the road.

"The sparrow outside the window on the wire pole has a big mouth.
You said this sentence feels very much like summer."

He sings the words convincingly. I can almost imagine the scene and for the moment I’m caught up in it.

"The pencil in my hand moves back and forth on the paper
I use a few lines of words to describe who you are to me."

Her face appears and I let it linger. I remember the last words of our last conversation. I feel lucky and lonely at the same time.

I’m sitting on the 11th floor of the Ritz Carlton in Battery Park, NYC. As I munch on a peanut butter cookie and look out the window of this lounge, I can’t help but think, I THOUGHT NEW YORK HAD MORE PEOPLE IN IT!!!!!! Honestly, from the time we got off the subway and got onto the sidewalk, I thought I’d see masses of people walking around and all. I mean, this is the largest city in America. I know I’m not at Wall Street or on 5th Avenue, but I just figured the most populous city in the USA would be a little more populated. Seriously, I’m looking down at the sidewalks and there are a FEW people on them but the only place that’s actually crowded is the street because it’s filled with cars. How do you like that? Well, that’s all for now because something just came up.

I’m different when I’m at home. When I’m at home, I am actually a pretty boring person…seriously! I like to sit around, play video games, read, hang out with the folks, play basketball, etc. When I’m in China, I’m much more outgoing, energetic, and ready to go and do just about anything at almost anytime.

Why is that? I figure it’s because I’ve actually reinvented myself as a new person in China. Because it’s so hard to break out of a mold, I’ve kind of accepted my fate as a boring person here in America. But in China, it’s like you’re on a stage. Being a foreigner almost gives you a license to do things that might be considered weird if they were done by Chinese. In America, everyone who knows me, knows me as being a certain kind of person. I’ve stuck with their idea of what or who I am. I’ve somewhat allowed it to control me. I’m used to it.

I guess, to the same extent, once I’m established in a particular location in China, I also act how people expect me to.

Not particularly deep, but something that I was thinking about.

Wow, talk about a flight from hell. When the guy asked me to give up my window seat so that he and his kids could sit together in exchange for his middle of the row seat next to some guy with bad breath…I just about told him to go do bad things to himself.

This was not the day to ask me for favors. Not after having been ripped off by some guy in Beijing for 100 yuan (airport tax! I’m still kicking myself in the hoo hoo for that one). Not after having our nonstop flight from Beijing to San Francisco be three hours and 20 minutes late taking off only to find that instead of it being a straight shot to the USA (as originally promised), we’d have to stop over in Shanghai. Not after being told that we’d have to get off the plane in Shanghai and go through immigration (the immigration officers were surly and mean) again and then sit in the waiting room so that we could board the SAME plane again with the new passengers only this time the plane was JAMMED packed. Being the nice guy that I am, I actually traded seats with him. But my face must have been darker than a car full of assholes when I agreed to do it.

Anyway, here I am. Home. Some things never change…at least not too much. And for that I’m more than happy. I’m so glad to just see my family. The food for dinner was great but it’s definitely the people that make this a happy place. So here’s my advice for the day: make sure your trip to your destination is terrible…that way when you get there, it’ll be that much better!