Lately I’ve been doing a considerable amount of contemplating about my current and particular life situation. I’m a societally defined Chinese-American, living and working in China. My parents, mind you, have never lived in Mainland China, (except for the first 2 years of my mom’s life) but in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the United States.
Before arriving here, I suspected it would be interesting, but never imagined it would be as confusing and fascinating as it is in reality.
I’ll begin with a relevant anecdote. When I arrived at the airport, the school arranged for a driver to pick me up and drop me off at my apartment. During the ride, we conversed. A little bit about me, a bit about him. I had traveled in China extensively and the questions I was asked were old hat to me, so I gave him the usual answers. Basically, the Chinese natives are fascinated by the idea of ethnically Chinese children being raised and educated abroad. I filled in his curiosity as best I could.
While at a traffic light, a Caucasian woman crossed the street in front of us. The driver pointed out the “wai guo ren” and informed me there would be many in my new neighborhood. “Wai guo ren,” while something new to my expat friends, is a term that I have known all my life. Literally translated, it is a person from “another country.” Colloquially used, it is a foreigner. The driver then paused, thought, and said to me, actually, you are a “wai guo ren.” I was slightly taken by this. Even though my parents raised me to be sure to use this term carefully and not in an offensive way, I never once considered using this term with someone ethnically Chinese, speaking Mandarin, to refer to myself.
This can lead to great debates on how to use this term. Which one of us is the true foreigner? And is it cultural? Ethnic? Racial? Or geographic?
The issue of my questionable identity continued on the very same day. After being dropped off at my apartment, I was greeted by an agent from the real estate agency that managed my apartment. All expat teachers are designated an agent who acts as an intermediary between tenant and landlord. In this situation, they also help expats with settling in. We weren’t even out of the elevator before she asked where I was from. Again, she was fascinated and asked the usual questions. Later, she told me that all the agents were busy helping other teachers from my school. She wasn’t my agent, and she was only sent because I could speak Chinese (she didn’t speak English.) Interesting, since I never told anyone in the office that I speak Chinese.
In my first few weeks here, one of my Canadian friends asked me about this particular issue. Ric wanted to know, in a sincere and genuine way, what it was like to be a Chinese-American in China. How did the locals perceive me, and how was I doing? All of that. I explained that they didn’t really consider me one of them, which was really funny because back in the US, there are times and places where I’m not considered American. He found this a bit upsetting.
Although I’ve lived in the US for nearly 30 years longer than I’ve lived in China, I’ve now been here almost eight months and can comment on this question a bit more in depth. In short, it’s confusing. For everyone involved.
Locals are not sure how to treat me. If we go by appearances, then I blend in, in terms of skin color, hair color, eye color. In terms of body physique (Westerners call me “small,” but you haven’t seen “small” until you’ve been to Asia…) and the way I dress, I don’t really fit in, and they notice. Language? I speak enough, yet sometimes need them to slow down a bit and bring vocabulary down to my level. Sometimes they act a bit frustrated and confused about why I ask them to repeat things, and why I can’t read fluently.
Normally, I am surrounded by lots of “wai guo ren,” so for this, I get a lot of puzzled, quizzical looks by people. I think they try to “figure me out” and wonder why I am speaking them in English so quickly. When parents of little children see my “wai guo ren” friends, I overhear them encouraging their children to speak with the foreigner, to practice English. I’ve never once heard a parent ask their child to practice English with me. It reminds me of my local encounter with the English school here.
A pattern we have only begun to notice more recently is that expats, or foreigners, if you will, are treated differently than Chinese. None of it is really quantifiable, just more minor impressions that I’ve gotten, and occasionally ones that my non-Chinese expat friends have noticed also. The only somewhat concrete example I can refer to is related to one of our teachers’ apartment complexes. Most guards around here are quite lax, but theirs in particular is a bit strict about visitors. Or so I thought. Each time I’ve gone alone, the guards tell me that they have to call my friend. They have told me that their Korean friends have to announce themselves each time as well. Now, would you be surprised if I told you that Caucasian visitors don’t get stopped? And the few times I walked through the gates with a Caucasian visitor I received nary a glance? On this issue, I feel a mixture of resentment, amusement and even a little bit of anger.
I’m suddenly brought back to an article I read several years ago, in a major publication where the writer talked about his experiences of racism as a Chinese-American. He live in a fancy building in Manhattan and referenced a time he was coming home from picking up take-away dinner and the doorman, although polite, reminded him not to slip menus underneath people’s doors.
As for expats, they are not as confused, per se. When we are socializing, I’m a foreigner. There are however, funny incidents when I’m asked about Chinese cultural conventions that are perplexing to them. On this topic, I’m sometimes able to help, and sometimes not. Next, there is the issue of playing translator. This is a slippery, slippery, slope. It’s easy to help, and it’s easy for people to ask for help.
Early on in our China-time, I went to dinner with two friends and we walked into a small restaurant where two other families we knew were eating. Before we knew it, people were asking me for help with tailoring orders, ordering a Coke, or asking for a spoon. Later, the friends I originally came in with got a bit annoyed, citing that I was there for dinner as well and none of the things they asked me to translate were requests they couldn’t have gotten across. I got a little annoyed by proxy, and thanked them. Odd reaction, I know. I don’t mind helping, but dependencies develop and lines blur. Far be it for me to judge what situations people need me the most and for whom I’d go out of my way to help.
I have certainly gone through stages of this, and I know it will continue to change the longer I live here. There is so much that I think about, and so much more I need to talk about. This is just the beginning, so far. There is often a fine line between being an outsider looking in and being an insider looking out. Right now, I’ll comfortably say that I’m just tip-toeing along that line.
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