a lifelong love affair.

I recently lent My Antonia to one of my students. Joe not only read the novel in English, he also read it in Chinese--twice! After pondering the plot, language, textual ambiguities and ambiance, he meandered into my office for a literary discussion. We talked about the books' characters, themes, and language. We talked about about our favorite quotations and characters. We confabulated about the books' predominate social injustices and their roles within the novel and society.

I fell in love--once again:

Exchanging ideas, language, and knowledge--dissecting language and plot--disagreeing about the cause of Mr. Shimerda's death--pondering the hardships of immigrants and women--connecting the novel's lessons to our daily lives--exploring characterization--gnawing at historical influences and literary discourse.....


This is the beauty of literature--its a love affair in and of itself.

It has help rekindle my desire to teach literature and language. It has helped inspire me to face reality and begin applying for teaching positions in NC.

Joe and I meet regularly now. We talk about Chinese literature and philosophy. We discuss American history and pop culture. We debate current events.

We are currently tackling Wuthering Heights. This is an especially hard piece of literature for Joe, as its language, themes, and genre (gothic romance) befuddle many westerners. However, we plow through the chapters together....constantly questioning one another and the text. As Joe struggles to understand the complex nature of the novel's plot and characters, I sift through the chapters feeling as though I am being re-introduced to old friends.

When Joe sits in front of me befuddled by the text's ambiguities, tangled family tree, and flashback/forward narrative structure, I see a more intelligent version of myself: a person who pours himself into books, unknowingly creating a lifelong love affair.

fabulous.

All a woman needs is a good bath, clean clothes, and for her hair to be combed. These things she can do herself. I very seldom go to the hairdresser, but when I do, I just marvel.

Hedy Lamarr

I cut my hair....it's fabulous.

read and guess.

I recently started teaching primary students on Saturday. This morning I opened the children's English workbook to unit 9: What's your favorite fruit.

And then I stumbled upon the following exercise :


The directions are clear: read and guess. The content, however, is somewhat disturbing (read the second hint).

Humor abounds in China.

finding my way.

My mother said she felt a deep sadness and loss for years after leaving Japan.

I suppose she felt disconnected, culturally imbalanced, and terribly lonely. How could anyone understand her feelings? How could anyone understand how or why she left her heart in Japan? Empathy does not translate well in every situation.

Everyone always talks about culture shock....how hard it is to move to another country, accept its culture, adapt to its sway, understand its people. However, we never mention nor ponder the reverse effects of this transitional state. Sometimes it's not the transition into a new culture that presents difficulties; rather, it's the upheaval and instability of transitioning back to a culture that you were once accustomed to that presents the dreaded frustrations of alienation and social misunderstandings and discord.

I love my home, my family, and my country, but I am not ready to return. However, there are times home beckons when the heart does not.

Some nights I cry to release frustrations; other nights I wallow in anger; and there are nights I retire to reality and take a long, deep breath.

Leaving China means abandoning a good portion of myself and my happiness. It requires me to do as my mother once did: to misplace myself in a hope to one day return.

I know many people will read this and think I am ridiculous. And, that is okay.

But, it is important to remember that roots do require us to remain grounded....they simply give us foundation, allowing us to grow in the direction we choose. North Carolina is my base, but it will not always remain my home. This is why I ache...why I cry...China has become my home--my heart.

But, despair does no one any good. Instead, I try to enjoy everything everyday--knowing I will soon leave it all.

I try to remind myself of those few words I love so much, but struggle to accept:

"I’m through with trying to fight the things I don’t understand
Accept my sweet surrender to the greater, better plan"*

It is seven o'clock; the sun is descending; the mountains peacefully loom behind the large clock tower outside my window. Learning to say goodbye means acknowledging every detail. Details are the small things that connect lonely hearts to happy feelings. May I remember enough details to help me remain content until I return.

*From Polly Paulusma's song, "She Moves in Secret Ways"

the philippines.

Gary and I traveled to the Philippines for the Chinese Labor Day holiday. We spent our first night in Manila and flew directly to Palawan Province the next day. We spent six glorious days in El Nido and Puerto Princessa. We snorkeled, enjoyed sea kayaking, went rock climbing, visited the subterranean river, and met many interesting people. A place like this helps bring a new understanding to the idea of watching God, as it is so accurately portrayed in Zora Neale Hurston's famous novel.

The view from the top of a cliff in El Nido

I exchange a piece of my heart every time I take a trip, meet a new person, or learn new things. A piece of me is scattered in every country, province, district, and city I have visited in southeast Asia. How hard it will be to return in July......

Children playing on a beach in El Nido

The thought makes me ache.

"What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?"

E.M. Forster, Howards End

Want to see more pictures? Visit Gary's photo page

Drinking fresh coconut juice in Puerto Princessa.

the lost daughters of china.

"Each of your birth mothers was not sure, but she wanted to do her best for you for the last time. She might have traveled as far as her money allowed her, to a richer area and a busier market where she would lay you down and hide you inside lotus roots or celery leaves. I am sure she would watch you from a distance, hiding herself behind a crowd or in a bush. There she would experience a kind of death. She would suffer until someone picked you up and yelled. She would try, try hard no to answer the call--Whose child?--not to run toward you. She would bite her lips until they bled. For her you will forever be a "broken arm hidden in her sleeve."

*Excerpt from Anchee Min's "A Letter to All the Lost Daughters of China"

I recently started reading Karin Evans' The Lost Daughters of China. It's a memoir about abandoned Chinese baby girls, their journey to America, and their unknown pasts. As a strong advocate of adoption (especially international adoption), I was curiously drawn to this book. But as I picked it off the shelf and paid for it, I had no idea it would have such a profound effect on me.

As the author writes, I hear my voice...I see my story unfold in the future as I read it in the present. I relate to the author's past (living in China; being adopted by my father). I feel the author's turmoil as she proceeds through two years of paperwork, bureaucratic scrutiny, and uncertainty. I feel the tingle and swelling of joy as she is handed rice paper imprinted with a perfect red foot no bigger than an index finger. I cry when the nurses thrust the warm, wrapped bundle in the author's arms. For the first time everything I have thought for so long has been put into words...translated into feelings.

But the greatest thing about this book is its brutal honesty. It teaches you about the horrors of Chinese laws and social construct. It displays the atrocities women have endured for thousands of years in China. It conveys--with great clarity and empathy--the deepest sorrow one must ever endure: the abandonment of a mother's miracle...

This baby's mother and possibly her father had held her, fed her, carried her, for at least three months before she was found and taken to the orphanage. Babies have persuasive powers to make us love them and three months is a long time. How unspeakably hard it must have been to walk away. And yet someone had. While I was in San Francisco, fretting about bureaucratic logjams, someone in south China was bundling up that beautiful three-month-old for a last trip to the marketplace.

It was an act so momentous that I'd often find myself trying to conjure the story from the few details I knew.

One day I will adopt my own little girl. I will teach her Chinese and English and help her reconcile her western upbringing with her eastern blood. I will help her understand that "the Yangtze River runs in (her) blood, and the time dust of the yellow-earth culture frames (her) bones." I will teach her both the beautiful and horrifying aspects of her culture and history. I will help her realize her worth and her beauty. And when she struggles with her past--not able to understand why her mother would abandon her--I will teach her about the greatest act of sacrifice and love: the moment her mother laid her down for the last time, praying her daughter would reach me.

I hope all abandoned girls and boys find their way into loving families. I pray that all of these children understand that the greatest love is sometimes disguised in the most horrendous situations.

the golden land.

I did not post many pictures in my previous two Myanmar entries. I believe it would be wrong to deny you a quick look at this country--a country seeped in color, beautiful faces, and exotic culture.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Young novices on a street In Naungshwe.

A young boy in Shwenyaung.

Chauktatgyi Paya in Yangon.

Young boys preparing for their ceremony. They are becoming novices.


Shwedagon Paya in Yangon.


Tranquility.


Ringing the bell.


My personal favorite.

Yangon: The Capitol (Myanmar: Part 2)

Yangon is like most big cities: congested, bustling, hot, and uncomfortable. I felt somewhat unfortunate that I was unable to venture to Bagan, Mandalay, or the Kachin state due to time and budget constraints. But like I've stated before, the best opportunities arise when we are not seeking them. And so it was with Ko Maung Maung:


After checking into a guest house and visiting the Na-Gar glass factory, I took a taxi to the Sule Paya (a 2,ooo year old golden temple in the middle of a traffic circle). Weary from travelling, the 100 degree heat index, and dishonest taxi drivers, I wished to sit in solitude and silence for an hour or two. However, as I walked around the temple, an old man started to follow and talk to me. He was a lively man--full of questions and comments. He not only doused me with personal questions as if he desperately wanted to know my history, he talked about himself, the temple, Buddhism, and his distaste for dishonest mongers and the morally depraved. I became slightly irritated as he continued to talk and follow me around the temple. My mind was flooded with questions: what does he want? why does he want to talk to me? does he want to sell me something? doesn't he see that I am tired and aggravated? why is he spending his afternoon interrogating me?

Finally, I complied all of mind's complaints into one question: Why do you follow foreigners around?

As I now reflect on this, I think to myself: Oh, Leslie-Ann. Has China really instilled such antagonism in you toward inquisitive strangers?

He followed and befriended me for the most obvious reasons. He is a simple man who enjoys life's most simple pleasures. In a nation that deprives this man a decent salary, freedom of speech, interaction with his family, basic necessities, books, knowledge, and a looking glass to the rest of the world, I was one person who could offer something new. My words, cultural exchanges, and different point of view were the closet things to the outside world he could ever hope for.

My two days in Yangon were spent with Ko Maung Maung--a sixty four year old wood carver from Mandalay. We ate breakfast and lunch together. We walked around the city. We drank tea and smoked cheroots with his friends. We talked about the social problems in his country; we talked about the social problems in mine. We visited many Buddhist temples. He introduced me to his palm-reading friend. He taught me how to apply sweet-smelling thanakha paste to my sun-kissed cheeks. He made me laugh. He made me think. He taught me that poverty does not strip you of decency, governments cannot silence those who speak the truth, and the greatest knowledge is attained by those who seek and understand life's experiences.

Drinking Chinese tea with Ko Maung Maung's friends.

East and West meet.

I could reflect on the Na-Gar glass factory, Shwedagon Paya, Chauktatgyi Paya, Ngahtatgyi Paya, and the street life, but these are not the things I will remember years from now.

I will remember Ko Maung Maung and the moment he asked me:

Do you have any English books I could have? I love to read English books, but I cannot afford them.