Wai Guo Ren

"Wai guo ren! Wai guo ren!" The little boy pointed at me across the lobby of the Shanghai hotel.

Catching his eye, I smiled and waved. This prompted the boy to investigate the strange foreigner at closer range.

Coming closer, with his patient grandfather in tow, the boy continued to talk loudly about the foreigner, asking his grandfather what she was doing there.

Only a few feet from me now, he continued to state the obvious to his grandfather. "Wai guo ren!"

"Wai guo ren?" I acted surprised and turned to look over my shoulder. "Nali?" (Where?)

The boy's jaw dropped, as he pointed at me, "Ni shi wai guo ren!" (You are the foreigner!)

"I'm not a foreigner," I stated in Mandarin. "I'm Chinese! Don't I look Chinese?"

Now the boy was really confused. He looked at me for a moment, studying my blue eyes, brown curly hair, pale white skin with freckles, and "tall nose" (as they call Western noses in China). After a minute he nodded with satisfaction.

"Yes, you look Chinese," he finally admitted. Then turning accusingly to his grandfather, the boy said, "And YOU said she was a foreigner!"

Yao-San-San...

My Chinese cell phone number has eleven digits. It took me a long time to memorize it. It was actually convenient at times that I didn't know my phone number for those first few weeks, when random people on the bus in my small town in China would ask me to tutor them in English, or if some grandmother wanted to set me up with her grandson. I could honestly say I didn't know my number!

But eventually I did have to learn it. There were students and parents of students and potential students and friends and co-workers and neighbors who needed to know my number. And so after telling countless people my phone number over the following months and years, by the time I left China last May, I could have quoted it in my sleep!

When I returned to China last month for a 3-week visit, I took my old Chinese cell phone and charger with me. My brother Michael put some money in my account for me before I arrived so that I could use my phone when I got there.

But it had been nine months since I had thought about my Chinese phone number. So when an American in Hong Kong asked me for my number, I had to think about it for a minute. And nothing was coming to mind. Then suddenly it came to me, all at once, and in Chinese! "Yao - San - San, Ba - Si - Er - Wu..." I actually had to say it out loud in Chinese and write it down before I could tell my friend the number in English! :)

Smoking Kills

(For your entertainment, from the China files - Written October 22, 2004)

Recently one of the staff at the high school was helping me with the fax machine in the office while puffing away on a cigarette. The small room was obviously a favorite spot for faculty to come and have a cigarette break, as evidenced by the overflowing ashtrays on the desk. The no smoking signs posted everywhere in the school must be just a suggestion...

Shortening my life span by inhaling second-hand tobacco isn't one of my preferred pastimes. But my cigarette-puffing buddy apparently thought my dramatic hacking and coughing meant that I wanted to join him in smoking a cancer stick. So he said something to me in Korean and then pulled out a big box of cigars from a desk drawer and graciously offered me one. It was a red package with gold lettering, and it looked pretty impressive.

I guess I should have felt honored to be offered such a gift. But even if I had been tempted to smoke a stoagie with my non-English speaking co-worker, I think I would have resisted the temptation after reading the big white label pasted on the bottom half of the box that proclaimed in bold black letters:

"SMOKING KILLS."

Needless to say, I politely declined.

Karaoke Party Upstairs

(Another story from my China archives that never got shared - until now! From July 2, 2005)

What is it that compels middle-aged, tone-deaf Chinese men to sing karaoke at volumes loud enough to wake our neighbors in the city across the river? Social pressure and consumption of large quantities of alcohol have something to do with it, I’m sure.

Karaoke is hugely popular in urban China. Many families have personal karaoke machines, or karaoke VCDs (Video CDs) they play through their TV. Old and young, men and women, talented or otherwise, all take turns singing Chinese folk songs, patriotic songs, and love songs into the microphone, keeping time with the words as they appear on the screen. In a spirit of generosity, the would-be vocal superstars kindly share their warblings with all residents of the apartment building, so everyone can be a part of the festivities.

For the past 30 or 40 minutes, I’ve been treated to a string of songs belted out as enthusiastically as they are off-key, by the occupants of the apartment directly above ours. I’m sure they’re lovely songs, full of tradition and history and sentimentality. I have done some Chinese karaoke in the past myself. It’s a lot of fun, as well as a good way to learn more of the language and culture. But at this late hour of the night, exhausted from a day of teaching, I’m not in the best frame of mind for a music appreciation lesson.

These are the same neighbors who often have pulsating dance/techno music booming through the rafters way into the late night hours. It’s the local party house apparently. Recently, after a night of little sleep due to the activity and noise above me, I asked my roommate if it had kept her up too. She hadn’t heard a sound. So either I’m a lighter sleeper than she is, or it’s louder in my bedroom than in hers. Or both.

That particular night, as 10:00pm turned to 11:00pm, 12:00am, 1:00am, and 2:00am, and they were still partying hard upstairs, no amount of shoving earplugs in my ears, holding a pillow over my head, or humming other songs could get that pounding disco beat out of my brain.
Finally I decided that the Father must have had me awake for a reason. I figured maybe He wanted me to pr for my neighbors. So I did. Through clenched teeth, I alternated between prs. of “Make it stop, Lrd!” and “Blss them, Lrd… Just make it stop, please!!!”

It’s too easy for me to get caught up in the rhythm of daily activities here – shopping, cooking, eating, cleaning, teaching, sleeping – and forget about those all around me who don't know Him. Then the Father has to do something drastic, like keep me awake until 2:00am with party music upstairs, to remind me of the reason I’m here. And He tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I need to be pr-ing for all the millions in this nation who still have not heard of His love.

“But how are they to call on One in whom they have not belvd? And how are they to blv in One of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim Him? And how are they to proclaim Him unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!” (Rm 10:14-15)

…There’s a strange sound coming from upstairs. Silence. The karaoke party upstairs seems to be over. How wonderful! I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to take advantage of it and try to get some sleep! Thank the Lrd!

The Suitcases in my Closet

They've been waiting.

Silently. Patiently. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. Collecting dust. Sitting motionless. They're waiting - the suitcases in my closet.

There's the small black and gray rolling carry-on. The one that I got as a going-away present from Norfolk Chrstn Lower School the year I left. That was the last year I was "Senorita Jeter," the Spanish teacher. The year before I went to China.

One of my little pig-tailed students in her navy blue school uniform lugged it down the aisle that chapel service when the teachers surprised me with gifts for my trip. With all the teachers and students from kindergarten to fifth grade watching, the tiny blond girl solemnly pulled the suitcase all the way up to the front where I stood, teary-eyed and overwhelmed. The teachers said it was to get me started on my travels around the world. They made me open it, right there in front of everyone, and pull out the goodies they'd crammed into the pockets and compartments. Stickers, stamps, construction paper, flashcards, children's picture books, travel-size toiletries, and bags of chocolate and candy for the road!

That little carry-on bag has been around the world with me. I've taken it to China, Costa Rica, Germany, Korea and Japan. I've used it in L.A., Texas, Chicago, New York, Kansas, Minnesota and Miami. It's bumped and rolled its way through airports, trains, buses, boats, and planes. Five years of travel has taken its toll on my faithful little bag. There are places now where the seams are coming apart, and the handle comes out if you pull it up too far, and the wheels don't roll as smoothly as they once did. But it's still the perfect size for an overnight, a weekend trip, or an emergency bag for the plane with changes of clothes and toiletries in case my checked bag gets lost. The bright green duct tape "M" on the back makes it easy to identify, leaving no doubt as to its owner!

Beside my black and gray carry-on is my rolling backpack with the matching green "M" on the front of it. It's a newer addition to my suitcase collection. I inherited it a year ago from a friend in Wichita, Kansas, when I needed an extra little bag for a trip. It's since been all over my city in China, carting books and supplies to and from school, or lugging home fresh vegetables, eggs, meat, and fruit from the street market. I've used it for day trips to nearby cities - carrying it on my back with a map and a bottle of water at the beginning of the day and rolling it back to the train station with purchases I've acquired by the end of the day.

But I haven't needed my rolling backpack recently. Now when I go shopping I drive the car to the supermarket and fill the trunk with plastic bags of neatly pre-packaged food products. I don't have to lug my groceries home on foot. And I don't travel much these days. My biggest trips now are to the bank or the post office. I haven't needed a carry-on for a plane trip in quite a while.

So my little suitcases sit forlornly at the back of my closet, behind the tennis shoes and sandals, still and empty. Silent reminders of places I've been, yet with the hope of adventures still to come. Someday I'll pull them out again, dust them off, and hit the road again. And they'll roll on to new destinations, bulging with clothes and snacks and books and possibilities. But until then, they're waiting - the suitcases in my closet.