Unintended Consequences

One of the more readily apparent human rights issues in Cambodia is the culture of child labor. In a country where the average annual income for a family of six is $400, the potential extra income that a child can provide is exceedingly valuable. Selling everything from bootleg books, to postcard packets, to friendship bracelets, young children roam Cambodia’s streets and beaches touting their wares. They range in age from around 5 to 13, and they are undeniably adorable. Throughout our trip, we found makeshift signs and lamented poster from children’s rights NGOs that warned travelers not to buy from child vendors, no matter how cute or persistent. Our patronage would just further affirm the kids’ ability to earn money, and would keep them on the streets, out of school, and vulnerable to assault or kidnapping.

It was difficult not to fall for their gimmicks. The children selling postcard packets would follow us down quiet streets and across picturesque temple grounds, counting out the cards in a rapid succession of various Romance languages. “You want postcards? I give you 10 for $1. See? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis...” Our polite declines would invariably be followed by, “You change your mind, you buy from me, okay?” It was obvious that they had been strategically taught to say pertinent phrases in different languages that catered to their wide diversity of clientele.

Sihanoukville, with its constant stream of wealthy revelers and foreign travelers, was a hot spot for child vendors. They roamed the beaches from sunrise until late into the night, touting bundles of brightly colored friendship bracelets and encouraging beachgoers to purchase strands to match their multicolored bikinis and Beer Lao tank tops.

A week into our travels, Meghna and I had thus far successfully heeded the warnings not to give child vendors our money. One particular evening, we had set up shop at a beachfront restaurant in Sihanoukville to watch the sunset and enjoy a few beers.  I’d brought along a deck of cards to pass the time. We’d been lounging for about an hour when a young boy approached us.

“You want bracelet? I give you one for one dollar.”

“No, thank you.” Our polite dismissals were well-rehearsed at this point.

The boy pressed on. “Many colors. You want bracelets?”

Cue the same tight lipped headshake that worked so well to deter vendors elsewhere. He’d probably leave after a second failed attempt.

That was when the boy noticed my deck of cards resting idly on our table. Casting his bundle of bracelets carelessly onto the sand, he dropped to his knees and started dealing the cards out to us.

Enchanted by his innocence, we decided to humor him. The game was some sort of rule-less gin rummy, and we were moved by the young boy’s simple desire to play children’s games instead of hawking wares. Despite the fact that he would sporadically throw us a coy, gimmicky wink as he positioned the cards around the table (a ploy obviously learned as a way to charm his customers) we wanted to believe that, fundamentally, this was a child just wanting to be a child.

Well, we fell for it. After about 20 minutes of throwing cards around playfully and humoring the boy as he tried to explain the rules of his game through the shrouds of language barriers, Meghna and I agreed that we should buy a few friendship bracelets from our new playmate.

What happened next was really just an afterthought on my part. After carefully selecting the perfect design and handing over my dinero, I thought it would be a nice gesture to give the boy my deck of cards. Why not give a gift that helps him recapture his youth? Why not do my small part to reverse the robbery of childhood that Cambodia’s child labor market exacted upon its victims?

“For you.” I smiled, setting the deck carefully in his hand. The boy’s eyes widened in unadulterated excitement as he ran his fingers across the ridges of the cards and slid them into his satchel. With a quick thank you, he was off to his next table of potential customers.  I sat back, feeling good about the gift of youth I’d just bestowed upon the young boy.

At this point, the sun had nestled down beneath the horizon, and we were enjoying one final beer before heading out. Just as we were about to pack up, the little boy came running back to us in obvious distress. He threw the deck onto our table, the cards dispersing in all directions.

What was going on?

The little boy broke into a torrent of agitated Khmer, trying to explain to us what had happened. With his English limited to “you want bracelet?” and our Khmer limited to “Akun” (thank you) we weren’t getting very far in understanding his distress. Finally, the boy resorted to a twisted game of Charades, mimicking the motions of being beaten.

We finally understood that the boy had been scolded and possibly beaten for possessing the deck of cards. With his leader probably assuming that the boy had stolen them from a customer, he had been ordered to return the deck. It was an ironic twist; the gift of one game was returned in form of another “game” to demonstrate mistreatment.

Sheepishly picking up the scattered cards, I tried to process my actions’ unintended consequences. My attempt to challenge the loss of innocence that child labor produces had, in actuality, created further pain for someone already victimized by an oppressive and entrenched system of abuse.

Unfortunately this is a common habit that we Westerners bring to our interactions with foreign populations. Much like the Vietnam War or even the War in Iraq, our moralistic belief that we should intervene to change “oppressive” systems, in many cases, has actually further exacerbated the very situations we were trying to rectify. My experience with the young bracelet seller in Cambodia was a very unsettling personification of the important question that Americans still wrestle with today. In what situations is inaction better than action?

You can't really understand a country until you've experienced its hospital system

This is what I kept trying to tell myself as my tuk-tuk driver careened through traffic and zigzagged past streetside food stalls on our way to the Sihanoukville Public Hospital.

 The morning had started off uneventfully enough. It was our second morning in Sihanoukville, the premier backpacker's beach town on the Cambodian coast. I'd woken up earlier than Meghna and decided to hit the beach while the prime beach chairs and umbrellas were still relatively abundant.

Armed with my Kindle and a vat of newly purchased SPF 50 sunscreen, I slipped out of the hotel and headed out onto the white sands. It had been about 5 days since my bike ride in Kep left my arms hopelessly burned. After a few days of restless nights and painful massages, I thought I was finally in the clear. My arms had darkened to a deep amber brown, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with the tan I was cultivating. Not to tempt fate, however, I settled down under the safety of a bright blue umbrella, lathered on the sunscreen for good measure, and eased into the comfy brown wicker beach chair. The plan was get some reading in before Meghna joined me, and then spend the rest of the day exploring the coastline and perhaps heading toward Sihanoukville's less trafficked beaches for some more peaceful scenery.

I should have known better than to expect things to go as planned.


About 20 minutes into my lounging, I got a craving for a smoothie to relieve the heat.

 Hmm, maybe I'll order a mango smoothie. I wonder where the server is. Maybe I should raise my hand to get his atten.......What the?!?!

I sat up with a start, my whole body rigid, and stared in horror at my right arm. From knuckle to shoulder, it was mysteriously and suddenly covered in an explosion of water blisters: big, small, and every size in between. I jerked my other arm over to run my fingers along the scaly bumps, only to discover in horror that my other arm was suddenly covered with identical patterns of water blisters, as well.

Oh my god, I am a monster.

I wasn't really thinking clearly, only to the extent that I knew I had to get inside as quickly as possible. My reptile arms grabbed up my effects and I started bolting for the street.

As I made my escape from the evil outdoors, the restaurant manager, who owned the chair I'd been using, ran out of his building and started chasing me. "You didn't buy anything! You use my chair you must buy!"

I was not in the mood to contribute to Cambodia's economy in that moment. In a dramatic flair, I brandished my bubbly arms in his direction and said, "Look at what has happened to me!" The manager's face contorted into a disgusted expression of horror, and he waved me on.

To get that reaction from someone who works on a beach and probably sees sunburns all time...not all that comforting, I thought to myself as I scurried back to the hotel. Maybe someone else will have seen this kind of a situation before and will know what to do.

Nope. My pitiful appendages got the same reaction from Meghna and from the hotel manager. 

"What should I do?" I asked the hotel manager, feeling increasingly helpless--both in regards to what was happening to my body, and how to treat it in a completely foreign context.

"Go to the hospital, they might know. I will get you a tuk-tuk." They might know? You're not exactly giving me a vote of confidence, buddy.

So, anyway, that brings me to where we began, in the back of a tuk-tuk, with exploding arms, headed for one of Cambodia's public hospitals.

 I'm never venturing into the light of day again, I vowed to myself as we turned the last corner toward the hospital.

We rolled up to what looked like an auto repair shop, a small building with an open-air front that was partitioned into two sections. The first was labeled "Recovery Room" and was filled with rows of cots, the majority of which were occupied by patients hooked up to various pieces of equipment and in various stages of consciousness.

 So much for privacy.

The second area was sectioned off into a series of private "consultation rooms." Given my hunch that consultation preceded recovery, I headed over to that section of the building and was greeted by three women sporting large badges that read "Pharmacy. We Can Help You." Sounded like a good place to start.

"I have a sunburn. I need to know what to do." I extended my arms. Cue the same disgusted and confused looks. This was beginning to be a pattern.

"You need to see a doctor. Please have a seat in the waiting room and he will come to you."

The waiting room turned out to be populated entirely by foreigners, all with various injuries sustained from various activities the night before. Sihanoukville has a reputation for sporting a pretty big party scene, and the nights can be fairly unkind to travelers who are in a strange place and have had one too many Angkor Beers.

 I settled down between a woman with a terribly swollen ankle and a young man with a bandage wrapped around his calf.

Let the battle wound comparisons begin.

Turns out the woman missed a step while stumbling home from the bars the night before, had taken a nasty tumble, and was now probably facing a broken ankle. The man had been bitten "by some animal" while he was partying on the beach in the dark. Even though he couldn't see exactly what bit him, the general consensus around the waiting room was that it was probably a dog. Rabies was, of course, a concern. But, my affliction took the cake. Unlike a creature bite or a drunken tumble, my exploding arms defied logic. Excellent, I have the dubious honor of "Weirdest Injury at the Sihanoukville Public Hospital."

As much as I enjoyed the attention from my fellow Sihanoukville victims, I was relieved finally to be summoned into the consultation room for a meeting with the doctor. I evaluated the main man's certifications and accolades, which were ceremoniously fastened to the walls with Hello Kitty hooks and Smiley Face pins.

After a suitable amount of waiting, the doctor entered with his entourage of pharmacists. Brandishing a flash light, he had me lay down on the examination table. Shining the flashlight across my bumps (a somewhat unnecessary move by my measures, as the room was flooded with natural light), he referenced a sheet of paper densely packed with Khmer writing, and said triumphantly, "It's a burn!"

Hmm...yes, yes it is.

"Okay, that will be $20."

 ....

 Flush with my Andrew Jackson, the doctor prescribed a French cream called Biafine and told me that it was very rare and I would have to go to a special pharmacy to retrieve it.

"How do I get there?"

"Go to the Big Monkey." With those cryptic instructions, the doctor did an about-turn and headed back out into the waiting room to summon his next patient. (Hopefully it was the possible rabies victim, that one seemed pretty serious).

Not at all sure where this "Big Monkey" was hanging out, or even whether it was a real monkey, or a building, or a statue, or just a figure of speech, I was once again left to the good graces of my tuk-tuk driver to take me to salvation. As is generally the case with my interactions with locals while traveling, my tuk-tuk driver did right by me. He took me on an additional 15 minute ride, at no extra cost, to retrieve my special cream and delivered me back to my hotel, where I carefully applied my French miracle cream and hoped for the best.

Long story short, every day, for about 5 days, without fail, my arms would erupt into a patch of water blisters from my knuckles to my shoulders. Then, every night, the blisters would fade away. It was like some strange reverse werewolf transformation.

I'm not too sure if my venture out to the Public Hospital was helpful in the end, but it certainly did give me peace of mind to know that I was checked out by someone better versed in physical reactions that I am. Even if those certifications are encased in Hello Kitty frames.

(I contemplated including a picture of my arms for illustration's sake, but, in the end, figured it was more appropriate for me to leave it to the imagination).

Talking to Strangers

Hmm..yep. I'm probably going to regret this.

It was our first morning in Kep, a sleepy seaside crab fishing town about a 4 hour bus ride from Phnom Penh. The "town" itself is now a bombed-out shell of the opulent resort city it had once been during the French colonial era in Cambodia. We had rented $2 bikes to explore the countryside and the ruins of French villas that hovered like architectural ghosts among the lush palm trees.



The ride had been pleasant enough, taking us about 15km outside of Kep's main drag. As you can imagine, $2 bikes don't pack a lot of punch. After about about an hour of biking and fawning over the adorable kids who darted out from their stilted homes to yell a million "Hello!'s" as we passed, we were ready to head back for a banana smoothie and a massage.

That was about the time I realized I'd made a mistake. Having set out at 9:30am that morning, I hadn't even thought to apply sunscreen. As we pointed our bikes back toward home, I noticed the familiar sting of a newly cultivated sunburn etching its way across my arms. For those of you who've never been to Cambodia, it boasts the most intense sun I've ever experienced. Think about the nastiest sunburn you've ever gotten on the Florida panhandle after an overzealous pursuit of tan lines, then imagine pouring scalding hot water on top of that sunburn, and you might have a fraction of the burn that I ended up getting in Cambodia.

But that's a story for another post. Needless to say, I was in a hurry to get off the relentlessly sunny country road and back to shady safety. Meghna (who, as most of you are aware, is blessed with a lot more melanin) was content to leisurely peddle home, so I forged ahead and soon lost her along the winding road.



The road itself was pretty sparsely traveled, and we were only accompanied by a few passing motorbikes and tuk-tuks. Assuming to be very much alone as I huffed and puffed my way towards a shady oasis, I was surprised to realize that a man on a motorbike had pulled up alongside me and tempered his speed to match my own.

Cue American mentality. Deserted road. Unfamiliar surroundings. Companion-less foreigner. Uncomfortably close stranger. Yep, all the facets of a good old-fashioned American horror film. We had also just come from Phnom Penh, where locals had told us of Cambodia's seedy underbelly where strangers were seldom trusted and vulnerable foreigners were often targeted for thefts or assaults. These warnings lept into my mind as I realized that the man was staring at me and had no intention of resuming his pace. I flashed my best tight-lipped smile and then pretended to ignore him (a social posture perfected through countless encounters with aggressive panhandlers in New York).

"Hello." He speaks.

"Hello." I glance back to see if I can spy Meghna's silhouette in the distance. Nope.

"Where you from?"

"America." Harmless enough.

"What is your job?" Oh wow, now we're getting personal.

"I work at a technology company."

A deferential expression crinkles across the man's face. He gives me a thumbs up. "Good job. Good job. I am a teacher. I teach exercise and history to children."

My American-instilled interpersonal walls start crumbling down.

"Where do you live?" I ask him.

"I've lived in Kep my whole life. My home is here, my family, my friends, my students."

My pace slackens. My concern for the imminent sunburn on my arms fades away as I'm drawn into a fascinating conversation with my new travel companion. He tells me about his classes, and, upon learning that I taught in China, starts asking for advice on how to keep them from "playing too happy" during class. We trade strategies for engaging students, and stories on the difficulties of learning a new language. It turns out he knows a little Chinese, and our conversation morphs into a choppy stream of alternating English, Chinese, and Khmer, depending on which language best conveyed our thoughts to the other person. He points out the middle school where he teaches, and tells me its the same middle school he went to as a child. Strange, I hadn't even noticed a middle school when I passed by earlier that morning. It's amazing the things you notice when you see with another person's eyes.

We ride leisurely back into town, where I dismount and wait for Meghna. The man waits with me, making sure I'm reunited with my friend before continuing on home. And he leaves as unassumingly as he appeared beside me on the road, with a smile and a wave and an offer to email him if I ever have trouble in Cambodia.



I'm always struck and inspired by the human connectivity that permeates Asia. How readily strangers jump into conversation, how eager people are to understand others. And how easy, once you push down those walls, it is to get to know another human being, even if only for a few minutes.

I wanted to rehash this bike ride for two reasons. One--it lays the groundwork for my second post about a certain disastrous sunburn. Two--it inspired my new blog title "Talking to Strangers" and a new goal I have back here in New York: to let human interactions happen, and to leave room for the possibility that a stranger can teach you something new when you least expect it.

To say that I’ve been a bit negligent in updating my blog would be understatement.

In a world where social media absences of a few hours often invite disgust and a litany of angry reader comments, I feel like I’m obligated to deliver a compelling explanation for going MIA for about 2 years. So, in the name of redemption, here goes:

In July of 2010, I wrapped up my year in China with Princeton in Asia and shipped off to the bright lights and bustling avenues of NYC to find my way in “the real world”. In the exhausting process of finding a professional voice in a city as dynamic and competitive as New York, my adventurous traveler's spirit took a couple of hits and went sulking away into the recesses of my identity. Yes, I became, to an extent, a fast talking and even faster walking “New Yorker” with all the accompanying stereotypes and personality traits that might come to mind.

Fortunately, I’m a firm believer that, just like your biceps or your quads, your personality is a multifaceted set of “muscles” that strengthen or weaken depending on usage. So, while I’ve been taking the 50-lb dumbbell to my “career” personality for the past two years, I came to realize that my “zest for life” and “human spirit” muscles were in need of some TLC, too.

So, in February, after a 1.5 years hiatus, I dusted off (literally) my well-worn North Face backpack, packed a few shirts and a travel-sized bottle of Febreze, and set off for a long-overdue reunion with Asia.

As the plane eased its weighty body into the air and pointed its nose toward Phnom Penh, Cambodia, I reflected on my motivations for using up all my vacation days so early in the year to visit a region in which I’d already spent a lot of time. What was I trying to recapture? I realized that I hadn’t really given words to what I wanted out of my travels this time around. So, embracing that old spirit of spontaneity, I decided not to try and stamp a big, definitive, “I must achieve X profound identity revelation during this trip” mandate on my excursion. I knew I had a lot to learn from the region, and I was excited to see what Cambodia had in store for me.



Long story short, I’m back from my sojourn and am happier and more peaceful than ever. My experiences in Cambodia challenged my perspectives, reawakened my fundamental senses of human connectivity, and reminded me that character development is the most important task that we will ever set our minds to. Among other things, I was also inspired to dust off the old blog and use it as a forum to rehash a few of the more interesting shenanigans and lessons I learned over there. So, expect those to be coming over the next few days or so.

Thanks for being patient everybody. Just like this blog, I’m definitely a work in progress.

How Can a Foreigner Act a Fool in China? Let Me Count the Ways...

Want to be a foreigner in China? Then, you’ve got to be comfortable with the idea of making a complete fool of yourself at organized events in front of a crowd of photo-snapping, video-taping, tour hat-wearing locals.

Little did I know that this is what I signed up for when I agreed to attend Hangzhou International Day.

“A government tour for foreign teachers, to show Chinese culture,” is how my boss, Mark, innocently described it.

So, given a perfect excuse for canceling three of my classes in the middle of the week, I climbed into a mianbao che with Wendy and Roger at 7:30am on a crisp Wednesday morning and headed toward the meeting place for the HZ International Day at Hefang Jie (河坊街).

It all started out normally enough. There was an inordinate amount of foreigners milling about the entrance to Hefang Jie, waiting to begin their “tours.” I also noticed a few cameramen weaving in and out of the throngs of multicolored, international heads of hair that stood out starkly against the sea of black heads that shouldered past us. But, after our tour guide began marching us down Hefang Jie and droning into his microphone about the importance of the ancient streets of Hangzhou, I started to zone out and prepare myself for a drab day of Chinese-style mass tourism.

I was so wrong.

The presence of cameramen should’ve tipped me off. But, at 8:30am, I just wasn’t cognizant enough to make that connection.

As I nonchalantly skimmed the placards describing the ancient roads of Hangzhou and daydreamed about what I’d eat for lunch, someone suddenly shoved a microphone in my face.

“Excuse me, can you speak Chinese?” inquired an eager journalist. The cameraman behind her trained his camera on my face.

“Uh. Uh. A little,” I stammered in Chinese.

“Ok. We want to ask you a question.”

“Okay…” They wouldn’t ask me anything hard, right? Something easy like, Where are you from? What are you doing in Hangzhou? Do you like Hangzhou?

“Why are the ancient roads in Hangzhou important?”

“Um. What?”

Is this a trick question? Some sort of test?

“The ancient roads. Why are they important?”

Yep, I heard that correctly. This is problematic. Definitely should have been listening to the tour guide earlier when he was discussing precisely why the ancient roads were important. Damn me and my propensity to daydream about food at inappropriate times.

This was even more awkward given the fact that I was supposed to be replying in Chinese.

“Um. The roads, are very famous,” was all I could muster.

“Did you know about the ancient roads before?” inquired the reporter further.

“No?”

“No?! “ cried the reporter incredulously. “You had never heard of the ancient roads? Really?!”

It was as though I’d insulted the entirety of Chinese history and culture with my professed ignorance of “the ancient roads.” This was getting exceedingly awkward. And the microphone and camera were still shoved in my face.

When is lunch?

“No…but, I do now. And I understand that the ancient roads help explain Chinese history . Chinese history is very long. 5000 years, you know”

“Ah yes! Very long history,” agreed the reporter happily, finally satisfied with me and my answers.

(Note to anyone ever caught in an awkward conversation with a Chinese person about Chinese history, culture, politics, ect: Merely mention the fact that China has 5000 years of history, and you will instantly resolve said awkward encounter. This is a surefire way to demonstrate that you know that your country is ultimately inferior to China in all aspects).



So. Who knows what parts of that ridiculously awkward interview ended up on the Hangzhou CCTV News. But I do know that, if my debut interview didn’t make it, at least one of these other awkward encounters from Hangzhou International Day probably did:

•Being handpicked from an audience of foreigner teachers, university professors, and government officials to dance the cha-cha with an award-winning dance instructor at one of Hangzhou’s art schools…and failing miserably to rise to the occasion and put one foot in front of the other.

•Being handpicked again from the same audience to do a fan dance with one of the art school’s female dancers…and failing even worse than I did at the cha-cha.

•Having an exceedingly hard time using my chopstick skills to pick up and eat a Traditional Chinese Medicine-inspired radish, and then looking up to see the cameraman trained on my face just as I sloppily drop the slimy radish from between my kuazi.

•Playing a rusty rendition of “Heart and Soul” with Roger at a piano in the music school, and accidentally muttering a not-so-nice swear word when I messed up the harmony—only to look up and see the very same cameraman leaning over the piano with the microphone and taping the entire performance. Great. My cover as a sophisticated, classy lady is blown.

Basically, I have now experienced the timeless and universal Chinese hobby of watching foreigners embarrass themselves while attempting to experience "Chinese culture." It really is a perfect way for Chinese not only to showcase their generosity, hospitality, and kindness, but also to reaffirm in their minds (and maybe ours) that their culture is absolutely superior to that of the bumbling, awkward, unsophisticated foreigners.

Reason #2353789 why I grow more fascinated by the Chinese political and cultural system every day.

China v. Google: Chinese Students' Surprising Perspectives

On Wednesday, I started out my classes the way I always do: with a self-deprecating story about the father I’d met at Starbucks the day before who told me I was the strangest looking person his son has ever seen, and a lesson on how to appropriately use the word “Haterade.”

But, instead of following this with an uncontroversial activity on dating advice or movie topics, I wrote the word “Google” on the board, and turned to face my class.
A wave of hushed whispering in Chinese swept across the classroom.

Some background info: The day before, Google had ended its tense stand-off with the Chinese government over Internet censorship by making the bold and very public move to cancel its Google.cn operations in the mainland. The Chinese government criticized Google for politicizing commercial matters. Google defended its belief in protecting users’ right to free speech and the free flow of information. In the end, given the choice either to submit to the Chinese government’s laws on Internet censorship or end its google.cn operations, Google chose to leave.

This very public stand-off with the world’s largest Internet search engine provider has shined a very bright spotlight on the Chinese government’s policy of restricting information access to its 1.3 billion citizens. I wanted to gauge my students’ opinions, even though I didn’t know how they would react to my queries.

The reactions were incredibly interesting and unexpected.

My first two classes consisted of freshmen English majors. In China, freshmen university students have not yet been recruited into the Communist Party, so their opinions and perspectives are much less influenced by CCP policies than older students. This had a significant effect, I came to realize, on my students' reactions to my discussion on Google.

“So, why is Google such a hot topic in China right now?” I asked the class of wide-eyed freshmen.

The excited whispering in Chinese ceased, but four hands immediately shot up.

“Google left. It was not happy with our government’s opinion about how to manage the Internet,” responded a usually shy girl with wide-rimmed glasses.

“That’s true. What do you think about that?” I carefully nudged them on.

“I am very disappointed. Now, how will we get information from foreign media? Before, that was the only way for us to learn about things that the government did not want us to know about. Now, we will be less informed,” offered another student.

Surprised and encouraged by this perspective, I gently pressed on.

“What do you mean by, they did not want you to know?”

“Things that are negative about China or the government. The government doesn’t want a lot of people here knowing about it. It will decrease the government’s legitimacy.
The government thinks it will make China weaker.”

Of course, I would have expected these comments from American students, but never did I expect them to come so readily from a classroom of shy, respectful Chinese freshmen. I was astounded.

“So, do you think Google’s decision to leave was based on politics or business? You know, it was having trouble competing with Baidu (China’s version of Google), so maybe it left because it wasn’t profitable in China anymore?”

This time, one of my more thoughtful students spoke up. “I think that Google does not care about money, in this case. It is already very successful. I think Google wants to use its power to show that China is not a place for free ideas. That means it will lose money, but Google thinks it is okay to lose money if it increases freedom instead.”

Innnnteresting.

“Do you want China to be a place for free ideas?”

“Yes. Free ideas are what we need to become more powerful. If we stay unfree, we will never be the most powerful country in the world. We need freedom for power.”

Wow.

Emboldened and excited by my discussion with my freshmen, I posed the same question to my sophomore class later in the day.

This time, the reaction was incredibly different.

“So, what happened with Google yesterday?”

Silence. Uncomfortable, shifty glances.

“Google left.” That was all I got.

“Why did Google leave?” I pressed them on.

The students hung their heads, suddenly intensely interested in the wood patterns on their desks.

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means we don’t know. So please don’t ask us.”

Shut down.

But, knowing that students had access to more information on the dispute than that,
I tried one more time to get more discussion going.

I asked: “Google left because it had different opinions than China about how to do business, right? What was the Chinese government’s opinion?” Maybe I’d at least get some party-line perspective on the matter from this question.

“The government is not happy with Google for turning business into politics. It is not happy that Google refuses to obey Chinese laws but wants to take money from China. The government welcomes Google back, as long as Google agrees to do business only, and leave politics to government.”

Interesting. Completely complacent towards the Chinese government’s stance on the issue, and completely different from my freshmen’s critical eye on the motivations behind their government’s stance.

“Okay. So, do you think Google will come back?”

“Yes, because Google needs China. China is the world’s biggest market. Any international company needs China to be successful. Google will be back.”

A nationalistic response from a group of students who, as sophomores, had recently been integrated into the Party system.

For the first time, I saw my students as a political force. Instead of shy, giggly girls and awkward, lanky boys, I recognized them as participants in China’s fragile political apparatus. I observed, first-hand, the mental transformation that Chinese university students across the country undergo as they become irrevocably intertwined with the political philosophy and policies of the Communist Party: from intellectually curious freshmen with the confidence to voice their opinions in front of their peers, to indoctrinated upperclassmen reticent to voice dissent in front of their Party member classmates.

This seems to be a vital aspect of the Party’s plan to maintain power: take the best and brightest students from China’s university system, recruit them into the Party, “teach” them the party line through monthly meetings, and then disperse them to watch over their classmates to ensure that all students are abiding by the Party’s laws and policies.

The result: students who, before their first official foray into the Party, were comfortable questioning government policies, become unwilling to publicly convey displeasure with their government’s actions.

To diffuse the tension that pervaded the classrooms during our Google discussion, I followed our talk with a very uncontroversial and harmless children’s game of Screaming Viking. The students all loved this. As we stood in a circle, collapsing into laughter as we watched each other fail to assume the proper funny poses upon command, I almost saw my students the way I had before: as fun-loving, giggly teenagers.

Except, now I know that there’s so much more to them than meets the eye.

Hangzhou Bucket List

So, I’m entering the home stretch of my time in Home Sweet Hangzhou. And, even though I’m really excited about what next year holds, I’m also already getting a wee bit nostalgic for all the little things that make Hangzhou (and China) quirky, unique, and lovable. When will monks in their orange robes cheer me on as I jog past them on my morning run? Am I going to find another dumpling lady who decides whether or not she likes me based solely on the length of my hair? (apparently, the shorter my hair, the uglier I am. Good to know.) And I highly doubt I’ll ever again have students who welcome me back to class after break with a slightly inaccurate, very off-tune, but nevertheless hilariously passionate rendition of Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance.”


Yep, China’s pretty sweet.

But, time is running out on me. So, in hopes that I won’t squander my time during my last few months in Hangzhou, I have composed a Hangzhou Bucket List of all the things I want to do before I set out on my kayak back to America:

1. Sing in public more often. Unlike in America, where this only puts your sanity in question, in China, it wins you lots of friends and free food.
2. Hike Huangshan in Anhui Province.
3. Hunker down on my Chinese and ramp up my private lessons.
4. Spend all my money in/fall in love with Hong Kong.
5. Hang out with the Uyghurs in Xinjiang.
6. Jog around the West Lake—a formidable challenge, indeed.
7. Finish a plate of stinky tofu. (might not be able to accomplish this one, but it’s good to have goals)
8. Be a better teacher for my students. I am officially and irrevocably attached to all 150 of them, and they deserve the best of me.
9. Ride the Maglev in Shanghai.
10. Get a new Chinese name. I can't really pronounce my current one, which is always problematic when meeting new people.
***Check! My students have now bestowed upon me a new Chinese name: Qian Duoduo. Literal translation: More and more money. I could get behind this one.
11. Play badminton with the neighborhood kids instead of always coming up with excuses so they don’t have to see how bad I am at the sport.
12. Have that Disney-themed karaoke night that we’ve been talking about for months (I can show you the world…)
13. Go hiking in Moganshan.
14. Explore the gardens on the west side of West Lake that I never went to before because they weren’t “urban” enough for me.
15. Go to Nanjing, Jiangsu Province—the city home to the topic of my senior thesis.
***Almost check! Going this weekend!
16. Embrace Zhuantang, the traditional, completely un-Westernized Chinese town next to my campus.
17. Read more—I’ve returned to China from America with Barnes and Noble’s entire inventory, and I am determined to read it all before I come home.
18. Make more memories with my four--or five, or six, depending on the day--awesome new housemates (yes, I live in a frat house).
***Partial check on this one already, thanks to the guys’ enthusiastic embrace of “International Women’s Day” by insisting on cooking incessantly for me and Wendy...tehehe.


My house!

















19. Live in the moment.
20. Eat all the chao la mian that I can get my hands on mmmmm.
21. Reflect more upon what I’m learning, how I’m growing, and what new thoughts, perspectives, and beliefs I’ll be taking back to the US with me....I should journal.
22. Continue my loyal patronage of the 1 kuai baozi and 1 kuai doughnuts.
23. Dance with the big pink bunny rabbit at Club 88 (don’t ask).
24. Be fearless.