Stepping outside of the small, less than 20 square feet (or should I say 1.86 square meters) apartments into one of Beijing’s many hu tong (something between an ally and a ghetto) reveals a sky mimicking the same foggy consistency of San Francisco’s, but with climates 10-20 degrees hotter than that of the latter. Walking out of the alley, several people comment on the way I’m dressed; it’s not “normal” for Chinese students to wear jeans to school. Buses, subways, and bike lanes copy the trend set by the country–overpopulated. One of my Mandarin teachers tells me, “Jing Cong (my Chinese name), you are so very Chinese!” However, if I already have trouble acclimating, I need to politely disagree.
It’s difficult for most of my American classmates to adjust to Beijing. Many refuse to eat the food cooked by their host parents or served in restaurants. For example, while we went to go eat hotpot, my friend failed to realize that the whole chicken in the broth still had a head attached. Upon discovery of this… phenomenon, she ran out of her seat screaming. Similarly, several SYA (the study-abroad organization) students hold superior attitudes over the native students at Er Fu Zhong. Instead of looking at everyone as one “us,” the Americans separate others into “us” and “them.” Most of the students have no idea about how to adapt; people will throw away their money on stuff they don’t need for outrageous prices. I’ll tell stall owners “I hope you’re happy, stealing from these inexperienced Americans.” The shop owners maliciously grin. At this point, I’m not sure who to be disappointed in.
As for me, educational pressures supersede the culture shock. When I began my first quarter at Bei Jing Shi Da Er Fu Zhong, I realized that this would be no 9 month vacation. I had the misfortune of being placed into the highest level of Mandarin available for SYA (the study-abroad organization) students, requiring me to participate in full immersion as well as cram 50 or more new characters and several “special” grammatical patterns each night. In addition to the two Mandarin classes every day, I also take English, Chinese History, Pre-Calculus Honors, Chinese Society/Culture, and an optional Martial Arts class in the morning. This really is full cultural immersion; I get just as much homework as the other Chinese kids.
The Chinese have a saying, bu dao chang cheng fei hao han, “If you haven’t been to the great wall, you’re no one!” Lucky for us, we got to visit the most broken down, least accessible, inevitably hazardous part of the ancient fortification. In order to get to other towers, we would have to climb through windows, balance on ledges, and scale down less than 30 degree inclines (this beats any hill in S.F.) I quickly wondered how my ancestors did this (well not really, my ancestors are from the south). Essentially, a suit of armor and steep stairs does not make a smooth transport.
Overall, the first month has taken its toll on me. Many of my classmates regret coming on this trip; they can’t understand anything that’s going on. As for me, I’ve never felt more lost in my entire life. With the American students, I feel more ethically Chinese. Conversely, with my host family, I feel more foreign. In three weeks I’ve gotten more D’s than I’ve ever gotten in one term. Unlike the majority of my classmates, I miss out on the opportunity of being a tourist: the locals don’t stare at my brown hair and brown eyes (compared to my blond-haired blue-eyed classmates), and I don’t get a “kick” out of cheap souvenirs sold at national monuments. Essentially, I’m a stuck mountain climber; I know how to climb but can’t find any footholds. Perhaps my history teacher said it best, “In America, we act like everyone’s important. China’s different. It has 1.4 billion people. It doesn’t need you.”
Until next time (if I survive), da jia qing man chi!
