Lee is the name of the lady with the son, whom I met several Saturdays ago at the children's bookstore. A number of weeks ago I told Lee I would go with her and her son to a large Buddhist temple in Tainan County. An opportunity to go to a tea farm persuaded me to tell Lee I could not go with her on what would have been today. Not wanting to disappoint either her or her son, I said I could come over for lunch on Saturday, yesterday, at 11:00.
I was late. I had rejected her offer to come and pick me up from my apartment, preferring to ride my bike independently despite the distance. I left ten minutes before 11:00 for a journey that would take me three quarters of an hour. It would not have taken quite this long, but I could not recognize her particular apartment building, even though I was sure I was on her street. It turns out on the outskirts of Tainan City all of the apartment buildings off the busy main road, down the alleyways and side streets, all look very similar.
I tried to call to ask for directions or help, hating to do so as I was sure she would never let me ride there myself again, insisting on picking me up instead. However, I had missed one digit in the telephone number I punched into my phone before I left, and could not call her. I was forced to find it myself, which I eventually did.
Then I had to remember which apartment was hers. There was no bypassing the huge metal door that is the entrance to her apartment building. The first couple buttons I pushed were the result of failed memory recall. After that I implemented a strict methodology of pushing every button, starting at the top and moving down the list. After the third or fourth try an old lady answered. It was not Lee, but I asked if it was anyway. In response I got what sounded like Taiwanese. Despite my inability to understand her words, I understood her meaning. "Who is this?" I was finally able to make her understand who I was looking for - the only option, because she would not hang up the phone and allow me to continue down the list.
She gave me the floor and room number and I called and went up and said hello.
Lee was the same as before. A large smile spread across her face, under eyes that were somehow troubled. But she was glad to see me, and food was laid out across the table. She had obviously spent a lot of time preparing a lot of food, and I felt guilty for being late.
The apartment was the same, though her son was much more active than last time. He was excited to have company, Lee said. Usually it was just her and her son and he was quiet.
We ate and talked and her son ran around and did not eat. He threw balls and jumped behind and on top of things. Every once in a while Lee would try to get him to calm down or eat by either asking calmly or spurting out a river of hurried, angry Chinese followed by another smile aimed in my direction. Neither worked and it did not seem like Lee expected it to. At times it reminded me of trying to interact with my young students.
I tried to get to know Lee a little bit better, but it was not much use. For my part, I felt more bold than the last time I was in her home. I pushed gently in ways that for any number of reasons I normally would not. I wanted to know if this was someone I wanted to know and to be around. I wanted to know if I wanted to come back.
I asked where she was from, but did not receive much of an answer. I asked what she did for a living, and I received a very different answer than last time. I asked where the boy's father lived and after a long silence she said it was not too far from here. I stopped here, pressing no further. Despite her invitations, generosity, and pleasantries, she was not doing a good job of making me feel comfortable.
The phone rang and her son ran and picked it up in one of the two other rooms in the apartment. She followed, and shortly came back. I had the notion that someone was coming up. I politely asked if this was the case, and Lee confirmed. "Two people from the temple, and two children."
They were husband and wife, though Lee introduced the lady as Chu Jie, or sister Chu. These two were very amicable, but not regulars to Lee's apartment. From the body language and polite manner I understood that this was their first time visiting. They spoke Chinese for a while, and Lee frequently apologized and I responded in turn, saying it was good listening practice.
I gathered that Lee had invited them here and they knew a friend of hers would be visiting, but they seemed surprised that I was not Taiwanese. She soon asked if I wanted to go to the temple with them.
Understanding that the day's events would most likely spread beyond lunch, I had freed my Saturday of any obligations. I had all day, but I had given Lee an artificial deadline. I needed to be back by six to study with classmates.
I accepted the invitation, less because I sincerely wanted to go at this point than because I wanted to pull all the stops. I wanted to explore as much of Lee's life as I could while I was there. I wanted to explore before committing myself to be a regular part of their life.
I thought it was curious that her fellow temple goers showed up for the first time while I was there. I thought it was odd that she only invited me to the temple after I had arrived. The scenario had obviously been planned in advance, but I had the feeling I was not being shown the blueprints. I was being led along. This was fine and I smiled as Chu Jie offered me the front seat.
The temple was beautiful. It was a new building, huge and square and prominent in the countryside. The landscaping past the gate, before the temple itself, was well manicured and pleasant. (Still, as with all the temples I have seen and visited here, none begin to compare to those in Korea. I have very high expectations now, and they have not been met and I long for Korea's temples every time I visit one here.)
The temple consisted of three large floors. Each floor had a large room, or hall, and outside the halls were side rooms for various purposes. The people were kind, and there seemed to be a scurry to find someone when we arrived.
There happened to be a very pleasant, bright man who spoke nearly perfect English as a result of five years of study in a Ph.D program in Nebraska. He introduced himself, and I did the same and he asked if we should sit down to talk. I was under the impression that we had come to the temple to look around and see the country side. This man was under the impression that I was there to find out more information about the temple and religion. I do not think that he gave himself this impression, but that it was impressed upon him by someone else.
It turns out that it was a Daoist temple, not Buddhist, per se. And he continued to expand upon Daoist philosophy as well as the particulars of what this temple's religion put forth. It was fine and interesting and not completely foreign. He showed me around afterward, and we soon left. I declined to take part in the ceremony whereby I would commit myself to the temple and practicing Dao. The monthly ceremony happened to be taking place that weekend, though I am not sure it was simply incidentally.
We drove back and the sun was getting lower and I was tired. It was hot and I was sweaty. The couple and their kids dropped us off and drove away. Lee asked if I wanted to come up to have something to drink. Again, wanting to explore as much as possible, I accepted. It was only five and I did not "need" to leave for another half hour.
Her son was tired and went to the back room and fell asleep. Lee poured me cold fruit tea made from pear and mango and asked if I liked the temple and if I was happy. I told her I did like the temple and I was happy. It was quiet and she sat across the low table. We were face to face and it was dark and gloomy outside now. A typhoon was on the way.
She asked if I was scared of the typhoon. I said no, but that I perhaps should be. They seem to be more dangerous than I am willing to recognize. She replied that she was not scared and asked if I believed in fate. I said I believed things were half out of my control, or fate, and half in my control. She said she did not believe in fate in the past but that she did now, so she was not scared about the typhoon or anything else. I told her I thought it was important not to worry, and it was good if it helped her not to worry.
The clothes on the balcony blew in a gust of wind and clinked against the glass door. I looked at the clock, past her head. I asked about the boys father again.
She looked at me, and instead of hesitating she seemed freed by the fact that no one was around or coming. She told me in measured pace, like a metronome, in words that seemed rehearsed, that when the boys father left she did not know why, she did not understand and that she was very sad. She said she used to forget many things, she would forget how to get home. She said she came from a miserable life. But, she said, since she started going to the temple, and studying "the Bible" (the book of Dao), she had been better. She said she went to a doctor and she took medicine and she remembered things now. She confided that now she only hoped the boys father was happy, she was not sad anymore. She paused for a moment, breaking the measured pace of her words. Through the last several minutes the tip of her nose had reddened. Tears looked like they may have been welling in the bottoms of her eyes. Her throat seemed strained. I asked if she thought the boys father was happy. This seemed like it might break the thin seal that was shielding her from tears. She said she did not know, but she hoped that he was happy. She hoped.
Whatever had motivated her nervous hands in the car several Saturdays ago had now spread through most of her body. Only her words were conveying complacency and happiness. Her eyes, lips, nose and body disagreed with her words and became progressively distressed and sad. I let some time pass in silence before I glanced at the clock and said I needed to leave.
She burdened me with several times the amount of food she did last time, none of which I wanted. I did not want to owe her anything. I felt like I was talking to a student, imploring her to stop giving me food, this time my face without a smile. A large can of raisins, mangos, other tropical fruit, several unopened boxes of cookies, a box of cereal, packages of dried seaweed... I finally just turned to leave.
"Thank you," I said. "Take care."
I did not belong there and I did not think I would see her again.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
黑人亮白
I hadn't yet, but I was about to run out of toothpaste. And while I felt I would make it through the night with what I had left, I decided not to risk it. I put on my Birkenstocks, just outside my front door, and made the very short trip to "Watson's: your personal store".
This would be my first time. Watson's sits on the corner of 長榮路 and 東寧路, the two streets that form the intersection into which my alley juts. I see it every day several times. It's a bright store and when you walk by, even from a distance, you can feel the air conditioning overflowing onto the street.
I walked in and saw what I needed right away but decided to walk the short aisles before leaving. It proved to be well stocked, a good store to know about. I grabbed the cheapest of what was available, which was not cheap at all, and headed to the counter.
While I waited in line I looked at the display I saw when I first walked in. It was stocked with sale items, among them toothpaste and mouthwash. On one box of toothpaste I realized I could read all the characters that made up the name of the product: 黑人亮白. I returned my gaze to the counter and mulled the characters over in my head.
Literally, they are translated as "black person _____ white." I knew how to pronounce the _____, but only knew the character in the context of 漂亮, which means pretty.
Intrigued, I turned back to the display and noticed that on the same toothpaste box was a kind of outline of what might be described as a Jim Crow era black man caricature. I decided a less literal translation, but perhaps more accurate would be "Black People Pearly Whites."
I have not seen one black person in Tainan since I have been here, and it is interesting to note how the absence of a shared history of subjugation and oppression works in conjunction with different cultural norms to produce things like toothpaste.
I like it.
This would be my first time. Watson's sits on the corner of 長榮路 and 東寧路, the two streets that form the intersection into which my alley juts. I see it every day several times. It's a bright store and when you walk by, even from a distance, you can feel the air conditioning overflowing onto the street.
I walked in and saw what I needed right away but decided to walk the short aisles before leaving. It proved to be well stocked, a good store to know about. I grabbed the cheapest of what was available, which was not cheap at all, and headed to the counter.
While I waited in line I looked at the display I saw when I first walked in. It was stocked with sale items, among them toothpaste and mouthwash. On one box of toothpaste I realized I could read all the characters that made up the name of the product: 黑人亮白. I returned my gaze to the counter and mulled the characters over in my head.
Literally, they are translated as "black person _____ white." I knew how to pronounce the _____, but only knew the character in the context of 漂亮, which means pretty.
Intrigued, I turned back to the display and noticed that on the same toothpaste box was a kind of outline of what might be described as a Jim Crow era black man caricature. I decided a less literal translation, but perhaps more accurate would be "Black People Pearly Whites."
I have not seen one black person in Tainan since I have been here, and it is interesting to note how the absence of a shared history of subjugation and oppression works in conjunction with different cultural norms to produce things like toothpaste.
I like it.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Chinese is not always sufficient
I taught a class today. It's less and less of a big deal, but today was a little different. I accepted a position teaching a Saturday class every other weekend at a private Catholic school in the country, or 台南縣. I finished making my three hour lesson plan last night around two in the morning and woke up a few hours later to leave my house by seven thirty to get on the eight o'clock bus.
I got off the bus at nine sixteen. My class started at 9:15. The academic administrator was waiting in the classroom with the students seated. I could not tell if he was happy I was there, upset I was late, or did not care either way. I did not care too much. I was tired and felt like I was doing someone a favor. The class applauded as I walked in.
Three hours later, I walked out of the classroom. The students were respectful, if a bit shy. I did a good job entertaining them in English, and was satisfied but tired. Deciding not to swing by the office to make sure they understood why I was late, and that it might not be avoidable in the future; to ask when and how I get paid; to tell them they would do better to have three one hour classes of thirteen or fourteen students instead of one three hour class with forty, I headed for the bus stop.
When the driver dropped me off he had pointed at a green sign and a green awning and told me when I needed to go home to wait there. So I obediently walked up the road, the smell of manure replacing the more typical smell of exhaust.
I soon arrived at the awning and stood, looking for a sign affirming I was in the right place. I never saw one. The awning belonged to an ancestor of today's 7-11. The little store front sold juice and a few other snack like items. It was not really a store, though. Peeking past the counters and shelves I saw a back room that strongly resembled living quarters. It was like there was a large roadside indent in this person's house and they filled it with odds and ends and juice and a table and took money from the occasional passerby.
As I walked up the ancient man who was nearly a foot shorter than me stared without blinking. I turned and faced the road. I glanced back at him, still staring. There were two young grandchildren running around, and another man at a plastic table built at kids' height. He was reading the paper and seemed oblivious to everything, though there was not much to be oblivious to.
The road was quiet, and the only sound came from the children running around. No one said anything, but the old man continued to stare.
"你知道幾點鐘這輛公共汽車來到了麽?" I was not sure it was correct, but I was pretty sure it would be intelligible. I thought if I asked what time the bus came I could kill two birds, confirming there was indeed a bus that was coming to this location, and also saving myself from the trouble of constant lookout, straining to see the first sign of a bus for the next however long it would be.
I was pretty sure it would be intelligible and I was wrong. He stared at me with the blankest stare a five foot tall, ninety nine year old man with wicked eyebrows and nose hair could muster. I tried one more time, paying especially close attention to all my tones. Nothing. The scent of manure reacted more than this man.
"不好意思," I apologized, and turned back to face the road. As I did so, I heard something aside from the kids running around. The old man slowly disappeared into what I took to be his home and slowly emerged with two green, plastic stools. He pulled them apart and sat them directly behind me, side by side. There was no "請坐" as is the custom when you ask someone to sit. He simply gestured.
I sat down, and to my amazement he spoke. During the time it took him to find the chairs he had apparently planned a sentence. "我會日本," literally, "I am able Japan."
His Chinese is worse than mine, I thought. Looking at him now, he appeared very Japanese, which perhaps was just coincidence. I have heard many elderly people speak Japanese and Taiwanese, but not Chinese, as a result of Japan's colonization of Taiwan not too long ago. Before Japan left, Japanese was well on its way to becoming the national language here.
A bit relieved, I replied that I was not able to speak Japanese, which I am sure he did not understand. But he did not seem to question my presence, he did not seem uncomfortable, and I took this as a good sign that he understood why I was standing and now sitting in front of his indented house store. He got up and went into the back again.
While he was away a bus came by. I stood up and waved my arms, a bit unsure of myself. The man who was sitting at the plastic, foot high table looked up from his paper to watch me - I was probably creating one of the day's more exiting events. The bus did not notice or did not care, and kept moving. The man with the paper waved his hands dismissively at me and looked back down. I took this to mean that was not my bus.
Eventually the old man returned from his dwelling, bearing a piece of chalk and something else. He stooped down in front of me, and wrote on the road, "12點37分". I thought it was neat that he had not even adopted the now common practice of writing times in the Western format of 12:37, preferring characters.
Well, I am in the right place then, I thought, and with good company. As I smiled and nodded appreciatively at the old man he handed me the unknown object in his other hand: a small plastic cup of water, sealed in the same manner bubble tea is sealed, with a thin, plastic sheet on top. I took it from him, and looked at it, not sure if I was supposed to drink it: there was not any good way of getting at the water inside. Before I finished that thought he had jabbed a straw straight through the middle of the plastic "lid". He smiled and sat down and we waited in near silence, the kids running around.
I got off the bus at nine sixteen. My class started at 9:15. The academic administrator was waiting in the classroom with the students seated. I could not tell if he was happy I was there, upset I was late, or did not care either way. I did not care too much. I was tired and felt like I was doing someone a favor. The class applauded as I walked in.
Three hours later, I walked out of the classroom. The students were respectful, if a bit shy. I did a good job entertaining them in English, and was satisfied but tired. Deciding not to swing by the office to make sure they understood why I was late, and that it might not be avoidable in the future; to ask when and how I get paid; to tell them they would do better to have three one hour classes of thirteen or fourteen students instead of one three hour class with forty, I headed for the bus stop.
When the driver dropped me off he had pointed at a green sign and a green awning and told me when I needed to go home to wait there. So I obediently walked up the road, the smell of manure replacing the more typical smell of exhaust.
I soon arrived at the awning and stood, looking for a sign affirming I was in the right place. I never saw one. The awning belonged to an ancestor of today's 7-11. The little store front sold juice and a few other snack like items. It was not really a store, though. Peeking past the counters and shelves I saw a back room that strongly resembled living quarters. It was like there was a large roadside indent in this person's house and they filled it with odds and ends and juice and a table and took money from the occasional passerby.
As I walked up the ancient man who was nearly a foot shorter than me stared without blinking. I turned and faced the road. I glanced back at him, still staring. There were two young grandchildren running around, and another man at a plastic table built at kids' height. He was reading the paper and seemed oblivious to everything, though there was not much to be oblivious to.
The road was quiet, and the only sound came from the children running around. No one said anything, but the old man continued to stare.
"你知道幾點鐘這輛公共汽車來到了麽?" I was not sure it was correct, but I was pretty sure it would be intelligible. I thought if I asked what time the bus came I could kill two birds, confirming there was indeed a bus that was coming to this location, and also saving myself from the trouble of constant lookout, straining to see the first sign of a bus for the next however long it would be.
I was pretty sure it would be intelligible and I was wrong. He stared at me with the blankest stare a five foot tall, ninety nine year old man with wicked eyebrows and nose hair could muster. I tried one more time, paying especially close attention to all my tones. Nothing. The scent of manure reacted more than this man.
"不好意思," I apologized, and turned back to face the road. As I did so, I heard something aside from the kids running around. The old man slowly disappeared into what I took to be his home and slowly emerged with two green, plastic stools. He pulled them apart and sat them directly behind me, side by side. There was no "請坐" as is the custom when you ask someone to sit. He simply gestured.
I sat down, and to my amazement he spoke. During the time it took him to find the chairs he had apparently planned a sentence. "我會日本," literally, "I am able Japan."
His Chinese is worse than mine, I thought. Looking at him now, he appeared very Japanese, which perhaps was just coincidence. I have heard many elderly people speak Japanese and Taiwanese, but not Chinese, as a result of Japan's colonization of Taiwan not too long ago. Before Japan left, Japanese was well on its way to becoming the national language here.
A bit relieved, I replied that I was not able to speak Japanese, which I am sure he did not understand. But he did not seem to question my presence, he did not seem uncomfortable, and I took this as a good sign that he understood why I was standing and now sitting in front of his indented house store. He got up and went into the back again.
While he was away a bus came by. I stood up and waved my arms, a bit unsure of myself. The man who was sitting at the plastic, foot high table looked up from his paper to watch me - I was probably creating one of the day's more exiting events. The bus did not notice or did not care, and kept moving. The man with the paper waved his hands dismissively at me and looked back down. I took this to mean that was not my bus.
Eventually the old man returned from his dwelling, bearing a piece of chalk and something else. He stooped down in front of me, and wrote on the road, "12點37分". I thought it was neat that he had not even adopted the now common practice of writing times in the Western format of 12:37, preferring characters.
Well, I am in the right place then, I thought, and with good company. As I smiled and nodded appreciatively at the old man he handed me the unknown object in his other hand: a small plastic cup of water, sealed in the same manner bubble tea is sealed, with a thin, plastic sheet on top. I took it from him, and looked at it, not sure if I was supposed to drink it: there was not any good way of getting at the water inside. Before I finished that thought he had jabbed a straw straight through the middle of the plastic "lid". He smiled and sat down and we waited in near silence, the kids running around.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Good Morning, Tainan
I was up at 7:15. School started the day before, and this would be my second day. I had reviewed, showered, reviewed again, filled my water bottle, and locked my door. Coming out from my side alley to the main alley, there was a thick mist, a fog.
I am never up this early.
Riding my landlord's bike onto the main road, I realized Tainan had been up for a while. Through the mist I saw the hustle and bustle of a city preparing for another day. I rode the bike down the familiar roads, but with a different, morning time appearance. More than the day before, when I was distracted with the advent of school, I noticed the masses of students on bikes and scooters, all heading where I was heading. I was one of many, just like a real university.
After class, I jumped on my bike and headed home, realizing I forgot my wallet. As I neared my place, I passed the 素食 where I eat religiously. The owner, preparing what would soon be lunch, saw me on the road. "早安!" he called. Good morning, I replied, realizing it was still before I was usually out and about.
I crossed the street, turning left by using the sidewalks, just as everyone else does, and passed the morning lady with the 菜包 stand. She spotted me, and yelled "早安!" I replied appropriately, and as I passed I heard another "早安!"
Turning my head, I saw the young man who had pulled up next to me on his scooter late one night last week. "I live there," he had said, pointing down the alley across from my place. "Oh. Nice. I live there," and pointed in the direction of my home. "Nice to meet you," he said before driving away.
This morning, he was beaming, just as before. He seemed happy to see me again.
Again, I replied with a smile, Good Morning!, and continued my ride home, happy to be so welcome in Tainan.
I am never up this early.
Riding my landlord's bike onto the main road, I realized Tainan had been up for a while. Through the mist I saw the hustle and bustle of a city preparing for another day. I rode the bike down the familiar roads, but with a different, morning time appearance. More than the day before, when I was distracted with the advent of school, I noticed the masses of students on bikes and scooters, all heading where I was heading. I was one of many, just like a real university.
After class, I jumped on my bike and headed home, realizing I forgot my wallet. As I neared my place, I passed the 素食 where I eat religiously. The owner, preparing what would soon be lunch, saw me on the road. "早安!" he called. Good morning, I replied, realizing it was still before I was usually out and about.
I crossed the street, turning left by using the sidewalks, just as everyone else does, and passed the morning lady with the 菜包 stand. She spotted me, and yelled "早安!" I replied appropriately, and as I passed I heard another "早安!"
Turning my head, I saw the young man who had pulled up next to me on his scooter late one night last week. "I live there," he had said, pointing down the alley across from my place. "Oh. Nice. I live there," and pointed in the direction of my home. "Nice to meet you," he said before driving away.
This morning, he was beaming, just as before. He seemed happy to see me again.
Again, I replied with a smile, Good Morning!, and continued my ride home, happy to be so welcome in Tainan.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday
I was tired because I had to get up at 9:30. I was tired because I never make it to bed before 2:00. I was tired, but I got out of bed and showered and brushed my teeth and drank my tea and got on my landlord’s bike.
It was the first time I have ever noticed the air being fresh. It is usually muggy and hot and very used by the time I get out of my apartment. By the time I turned onto the main road from my little alleyway, the air was muggy and hot and very used. But I enjoyed the morning breeze and the new smells from all of the morning food carts that had not yet traded existences with their lunchtime counterparts. I enjoyed the ride past my normal place of employment, into generally unexplored territory. I enjoyed getting a little bit lost until I only had 10 minutes left.
I needed to be at the bookstore by 10:30 to read oversized children’s books with large pictures in the books and parents and children not in the books. The bookstore was new, or at least newly moved, and had different white people read books every Saturday morning as a kind of promotion. This weekend they were trying me out. I had come to be introduced to Charles, the guy in charge, through Diana.
I stopped riding my landlord's bike, looked around, thought about it, and then rode to the front of the bookstore. I walked in with 5 minutes to spare, but more sweaty than I wanted to be. There were already fifteen or twenty scooters outside. It looked like I had an audience. I walked in, past the gawking children and sat down in the reading room. I made very small talk with the kids, peeked through the books, ensuring I could ask simple questions about the pictures and words, making sure I would not look stupid in five minutes.
Five children’s books later I was more exhausted than I thought I would be, and thankful that if they had me come back it wouldn’t be for at least a few weeks. Charles was not around, but I did want to get paid so I sat down next to the checkout counter. The bookstore was in a new building, in a new part of town with big(er) houses and wide(r) roads. Things were shiny on the inside, too shiny for a bookstore, but all the children rambunctious and energetic for no apparent reason took the edge off. I did not mind sitting for an indefinite amount of time to get paid. I was usually sleeping right then, and didn’t have anywhere in particular I needed to be.
“Okay, just sign anywhere.” The lady behind the desk was now behind me and handed me six hundred and fifty dollars and a piece of paper that looked like she pulled it out of the garbage can. I signed my name on the piece of garbage, gave it back, smiled, and kept the money. “謝謝.”
My attention turned back to the mom and her son in front of me. They had made to leave several times, but had not. I felt like I was included in their group for some reason, like we were one party. Maybe they could not leave yet because I had not said goodbye. They were looking at other books now. “他想看別的書嗎?” I asked. The mom looked up from the books, with a large smile. I do not think she even said anything, but just sat down at my table, sat her child down, and then set the book down. I recognized her now. She had helped me hold one of the oversized oversized books. She had seemed to be able to speak some English, and her son of five years had seemed anxious to turn every page before I was done asking all of my silly questions.
When we finished reading, I said goodbye so they would be able to leave. They walked out the door, but not before bestowing enough drink and snack upon me that it was going to be difficult to ride my landlord’s bike home. I soon followed suit, saying goodbye to the money handling woman behind the counter.
As I was arranging all of my new possessions on my pseudo-rack that sits over my landlord’s back wheel, the mom and her son asked where I lived. “東寧路.” I realized I must have pronounced it horribly because it is one of the largest streets in Tainan and it was only two blocks away and she had no idea what I was talking about. “東寧路,” I tried again. No luck.
We made more small talk for several minutes before she said goodbye. But when she said goodbye she actually said, “Do you want to follow us to our house? It’s very quick.”
“Sure.”
She had a motor and I had legs and pedals. She could not seem to find a comfortable speed for both of us. Rather, the distance between us would grow at a rate of 20-30 kilometers per hour for a matter of seconds, until it started to decrease at about the same rate: just as I had reached maximum pedaling speed, she essentially came to a complete stop. Losing all momentum to come to a stop next to her, or sometimes to avoid hitting her, I would find myself once again trying to catch up just moments later. This continued for the two or three kilometers to her apartment.
Her apartment building reminded me of Korea, probably because, at least from the outside, it resembled the only apartment building I saw in Korea. It was older, and colder than other apartments. It was actually hotter: she did not have air conditioning, but it was more sterile, aside from the dirt. The door was heavier. The halls were darker. I was comparing it to my apartment. It probably should have reminded me of Taiwan, but I had not been in any apartments outside of my own new, clean, bright one.
She did not live in her apartment hallway, though. She and her son lived in their apartment.
She is a small lady, bordering on fragile, except for her strong presence. She is not short, but skinny. She has an angular face, high cheekbones, and kind eyes, if a bit sad. But it would be difficult to describe her without including her son. It was immediately apparent that she lives for her son, in a way I have not encountered before. “This is where he and I live. We live here together.” she said. “Please sit down.” She invited me to eat with them. “I would love to. I am a vegetarian, though.” She is a vegetarian too, and she was thrilled.
She started cooking. She did not once lose track of her son. She continued to engage me in conversation. She told her son to pick up his things and help clear the table. She oversaw the entire operation from her small corner, in the kitchen.
The apartment was warm, but not cozy in the Western sense. It had three rooms, of which I only could see one. The kitchen occupied one corner of the room, a large wooden bench with a heavy lacquer occupied one wall, on one side of a small table, and a large bookshelf and a television occupied the opposite wall. I could see the laundry hanging outside in the sun, through the kitchen window. The fan kept the air from sinking to the ground.
She set food down, dumplings and another dish, impossible to describe. “Please serve yourself,” she said as she served me half of either dish. “Thank you very much,” I replied. I waited for her to sit down, or for her son to sit down. He was now watching a kids' English TV show with Chinese subtitles a couple feet in front of me. We were playing with toy cars on the table until his mom told him to put things away.
She went back and appeared to be cooking more food. He continued watching TV. “Please serve yourself,” she repeated. “Please don’t wait. Please eat.” I obliged. I ate all of what she had served me. It was delicious. Her son came by to have a couple bites before returning to the floor.
“Please serve yourself,” she said again, and served me the rest of the food on the table before refilling both plates.
“Maybe you can live here. There is an empty room next to us. How much do you pay?”
...
I was not sure what to make of this. Taiwanese are all very generous, very friendly, and generally very open. I have often been asked how much I pay for rent. From the reaction I get I have come to understand that I pay a bit above average for the place I describe. “One furnished room in a new building without a kitchen, and internet and TV included.” I am okay with this. I like where I live and do not have any desire to start shopping for a new place yet.
But never has it been suggested that I move in next door to someone.
I avoided addressing the first part of her statement, by answering the second part.
“Oh, that is cheap. We pay $7,500,” she replied. I was surprised at her response. I reiterated that my place was small, and did not have a kitchen, but I did not think she understood.
“Do you like it here? Is the food good?” I told her the food was very good, and I was very comfortable.
A man walked in from the hallway. It was not apparent whether he was expected or not. “This is his father,” she explained. It seemed obvious that they were not together; she called him “his father” and specifically had said “We live here. This is where he and I live.” Still, they were the friendliest separated couple I have seen, and he seemed very comfortable. He sat down across from me, and she served him in the same manner she had me. He and I spoke about politics and economics in very broken Chinese (on my part) and regular translation assistance from her. She refilled the plates again, and I realized it would not stop until I just completely stopped eating, which I did, completely full.
“Maybe you can join our family.” I smiled and said I thought my mom would be sad if I joined her family, and she seemed to sadden slightly at my statement. After a short silence, she asked “Why would your mother be sad?” I explained that my mother would miss me very much if I was not in her family anymore. “Oh, your mother misses you very much?” she brightened. “Yes, I think so,” I replied, relieved I did not have to join her family or make her sad.
His father suggested we go pick fruit in the countryside. I was wearing nice English-children’s-books reading clothes, and voiced my concerns, but it was no trouble at all he assured me. I was curious to get outside of the city a bit, so I let him assure me my clothes were no trouble at all, and we all four went down to his car, but not before she gifted/burdened me with another grocery bag full of food.
I ignored what I knew was his father telling his son to get out of the front seat, and sat down in the back next to his mother. The twenty minute drive to the countryside was comfortable and friendly, talking the whole way and introducing each other to our different lives and worlds and words. But at times his father and her son would be distracted with each other, availing the open space between his mother and me to be filled with our own words. She told me about her son, how they lived together, how she studied English at school but had not spoken it for ten years and how she was studying on her own so that she could teach her son. She explained that he was very shy, but curious. She explained that during his first few years of life, she did not take him out enough, so he was very reserved. Because of this he was shy to practice English, he was shy at school. She offered to cook me lunch whenever I had free time, and I could be friends with her son. She could help me with my Chinese. Maybe I could move in next door.
The entire car ride, she was stroking the lose strands of straw coming unraveled from her sunhat in her lap. It was not a calm sort of stroking, but nervous. I did not see anything to be nervous about, and it was not apparent in her face, but only in her hands. Her hands were detached from whatever was dictating directions to her eyes, mouth, nose. They were motivated by something else.
We picked the fruit, and looked around. We went through an old abandoned house where the pigs lived and slept one wall away from the people. We got stung by fire ants, and we got back in the car.
It was a comfortable ride back, but her hands continued stroking.
I tried to understand my place in this scenario. I was pushing my puzzle piece against all the others, seeing what fit. I was trying to understand the dynamic between the four people in the car, and making a conscious effort not to be unnecessarily wary. Her hands betrayed her face and worked with her words to portray an uneasiness. I felt she was asking me if I would like to fill a void somewhere. If I could be her son’s friend, if I liked to be there, if I wanted to come over. And yet, my thoughts were mostly inferences. I was reading between double spaced lines of language barriers and cultural differences. I zoomed out and looked at planet earth from outer space and reveled in the fact that I found myself in this car in this city on this island with these people I had not known existed just hours before.
When we arrived at her apartment building his dad washed the fruit, and his mom handed me another grocery bag, this one full of the fruit. He had to go, so he did. I had to go too. I had plans to go to a Moon Festival ceremony.
She asked if I needed to be led back, if I could find my way. I declined, thinking I would make better time on my own, avoiding the stop and go pace of the journey there. I also was positive I could find my way back and I was ready to be alone for a bit. She said okay, and led me back anyway.
This time we ended up side by side most of the time, her son staring at me from between her legs on the scooter, as children in Taiwan ride. A number of times I thought one of us would be hit, as our combined berth was twice as wide as it should have been. Halfway to the bookstore, or a sixth of the way home, she told me her son wanted to see my place. I laughed and smiled, and the light turned green.
At the next light he looked at me sincerely and said “我想去.” I smiled and said, “You want to go?” and he nodded earnestly and the light turned green. As we rode next to each other, I heard over the scooter engine, “我想去!” We arrived at the bookstore. I had come there by myself that morning, and there could not be any question of whether I needed help going back to my place. But he looked up in earnest. I laughed and smiled, and he persisted and looked.
I decided not to push against the grain any longer, and asked if she had time. “If you do not mind, then I have time,” she said.
I felt half anxious that I was involving myself too deeply in something I did not understand, and half happy to see her son’s beaming face. When they walked in to see my place, the first feeling dissipated as she commented, “Maybe $5,500 is a little bit expensive. This is not very big.”
I racked my brain for something I could give her son to return the generous gesture of burdening me with grocery bags full of food. I remembered I had been given some dried and salted plums, Taiwanese candy. “你喜歡這個嗎?” He nodded, and smiled when I gave them to him.
She dragged her son out, leaving me to shower and get ready. I waved them goodbye and watched them drive away on their scooter.
It was the first time I have ever noticed the air being fresh. It is usually muggy and hot and very used by the time I get out of my apartment. By the time I turned onto the main road from my little alleyway, the air was muggy and hot and very used. But I enjoyed the morning breeze and the new smells from all of the morning food carts that had not yet traded existences with their lunchtime counterparts. I enjoyed the ride past my normal place of employment, into generally unexplored territory. I enjoyed getting a little bit lost until I only had 10 minutes left.
I needed to be at the bookstore by 10:30 to read oversized children’s books with large pictures in the books and parents and children not in the books. The bookstore was new, or at least newly moved, and had different white people read books every Saturday morning as a kind of promotion. This weekend they were trying me out. I had come to be introduced to Charles, the guy in charge, through Diana.
I stopped riding my landlord's bike, looked around, thought about it, and then rode to the front of the bookstore. I walked in with 5 minutes to spare, but more sweaty than I wanted to be. There were already fifteen or twenty scooters outside. It looked like I had an audience. I walked in, past the gawking children and sat down in the reading room. I made very small talk with the kids, peeked through the books, ensuring I could ask simple questions about the pictures and words, making sure I would not look stupid in five minutes.
Five children’s books later I was more exhausted than I thought I would be, and thankful that if they had me come back it wouldn’t be for at least a few weeks. Charles was not around, but I did want to get paid so I sat down next to the checkout counter. The bookstore was in a new building, in a new part of town with big(er) houses and wide(r) roads. Things were shiny on the inside, too shiny for a bookstore, but all the children rambunctious and energetic for no apparent reason took the edge off. I did not mind sitting for an indefinite amount of time to get paid. I was usually sleeping right then, and didn’t have anywhere in particular I needed to be.
“Okay, just sign anywhere.” The lady behind the desk was now behind me and handed me six hundred and fifty dollars and a piece of paper that looked like she pulled it out of the garbage can. I signed my name on the piece of garbage, gave it back, smiled, and kept the money. “謝謝.”
My attention turned back to the mom and her son in front of me. They had made to leave several times, but had not. I felt like I was included in their group for some reason, like we were one party. Maybe they could not leave yet because I had not said goodbye. They were looking at other books now. “他想看別的書嗎?” I asked. The mom looked up from the books, with a large smile. I do not think she even said anything, but just sat down at my table, sat her child down, and then set the book down. I recognized her now. She had helped me hold one of the oversized oversized books. She had seemed to be able to speak some English, and her son of five years had seemed anxious to turn every page before I was done asking all of my silly questions.
When we finished reading, I said goodbye so they would be able to leave. They walked out the door, but not before bestowing enough drink and snack upon me that it was going to be difficult to ride my landlord’s bike home. I soon followed suit, saying goodbye to the money handling woman behind the counter.
As I was arranging all of my new possessions on my pseudo-rack that sits over my landlord’s back wheel, the mom and her son asked where I lived. “東寧路.” I realized I must have pronounced it horribly because it is one of the largest streets in Tainan and it was only two blocks away and she had no idea what I was talking about. “東寧路,” I tried again. No luck.
We made more small talk for several minutes before she said goodbye. But when she said goodbye she actually said, “Do you want to follow us to our house? It’s very quick.”
“Sure.”
She had a motor and I had legs and pedals. She could not seem to find a comfortable speed for both of us. Rather, the distance between us would grow at a rate of 20-30 kilometers per hour for a matter of seconds, until it started to decrease at about the same rate: just as I had reached maximum pedaling speed, she essentially came to a complete stop. Losing all momentum to come to a stop next to her, or sometimes to avoid hitting her, I would find myself once again trying to catch up just moments later. This continued for the two or three kilometers to her apartment.
Her apartment building reminded me of Korea, probably because, at least from the outside, it resembled the only apartment building I saw in Korea. It was older, and colder than other apartments. It was actually hotter: she did not have air conditioning, but it was more sterile, aside from the dirt. The door was heavier. The halls were darker. I was comparing it to my apartment. It probably should have reminded me of Taiwan, but I had not been in any apartments outside of my own new, clean, bright one.
She did not live in her apartment hallway, though. She and her son lived in their apartment.
She is a small lady, bordering on fragile, except for her strong presence. She is not short, but skinny. She has an angular face, high cheekbones, and kind eyes, if a bit sad. But it would be difficult to describe her without including her son. It was immediately apparent that she lives for her son, in a way I have not encountered before. “This is where he and I live. We live here together.” she said. “Please sit down.” She invited me to eat with them. “I would love to. I am a vegetarian, though.” She is a vegetarian too, and she was thrilled.
She started cooking. She did not once lose track of her son. She continued to engage me in conversation. She told her son to pick up his things and help clear the table. She oversaw the entire operation from her small corner, in the kitchen.
The apartment was warm, but not cozy in the Western sense. It had three rooms, of which I only could see one. The kitchen occupied one corner of the room, a large wooden bench with a heavy lacquer occupied one wall, on one side of a small table, and a large bookshelf and a television occupied the opposite wall. I could see the laundry hanging outside in the sun, through the kitchen window. The fan kept the air from sinking to the ground.
She set food down, dumplings and another dish, impossible to describe. “Please serve yourself,” she said as she served me half of either dish. “Thank you very much,” I replied. I waited for her to sit down, or for her son to sit down. He was now watching a kids' English TV show with Chinese subtitles a couple feet in front of me. We were playing with toy cars on the table until his mom told him to put things away.
She went back and appeared to be cooking more food. He continued watching TV. “Please serve yourself,” she repeated. “Please don’t wait. Please eat.” I obliged. I ate all of what she had served me. It was delicious. Her son came by to have a couple bites before returning to the floor.
“Please serve yourself,” she said again, and served me the rest of the food on the table before refilling both plates.
“Maybe you can live here. There is an empty room next to us. How much do you pay?”
...
I was not sure what to make of this. Taiwanese are all very generous, very friendly, and generally very open. I have often been asked how much I pay for rent. From the reaction I get I have come to understand that I pay a bit above average for the place I describe. “One furnished room in a new building without a kitchen, and internet and TV included.” I am okay with this. I like where I live and do not have any desire to start shopping for a new place yet.
But never has it been suggested that I move in next door to someone.
I avoided addressing the first part of her statement, by answering the second part.
“Oh, that is cheap. We pay $7,500,” she replied. I was surprised at her response. I reiterated that my place was small, and did not have a kitchen, but I did not think she understood.
“Do you like it here? Is the food good?” I told her the food was very good, and I was very comfortable.
A man walked in from the hallway. It was not apparent whether he was expected or not. “This is his father,” she explained. It seemed obvious that they were not together; she called him “his father” and specifically had said “We live here. This is where he and I live.” Still, they were the friendliest separated couple I have seen, and he seemed very comfortable. He sat down across from me, and she served him in the same manner she had me. He and I spoke about politics and economics in very broken Chinese (on my part) and regular translation assistance from her. She refilled the plates again, and I realized it would not stop until I just completely stopped eating, which I did, completely full.
“Maybe you can join our family.” I smiled and said I thought my mom would be sad if I joined her family, and she seemed to sadden slightly at my statement. After a short silence, she asked “Why would your mother be sad?” I explained that my mother would miss me very much if I was not in her family anymore. “Oh, your mother misses you very much?” she brightened. “Yes, I think so,” I replied, relieved I did not have to join her family or make her sad.
His father suggested we go pick fruit in the countryside. I was wearing nice English-children’s-books reading clothes, and voiced my concerns, but it was no trouble at all he assured me. I was curious to get outside of the city a bit, so I let him assure me my clothes were no trouble at all, and we all four went down to his car, but not before she gifted/burdened me with another grocery bag full of food.
I ignored what I knew was his father telling his son to get out of the front seat, and sat down in the back next to his mother. The twenty minute drive to the countryside was comfortable and friendly, talking the whole way and introducing each other to our different lives and worlds and words. But at times his father and her son would be distracted with each other, availing the open space between his mother and me to be filled with our own words. She told me about her son, how they lived together, how she studied English at school but had not spoken it for ten years and how she was studying on her own so that she could teach her son. She explained that he was very shy, but curious. She explained that during his first few years of life, she did not take him out enough, so he was very reserved. Because of this he was shy to practice English, he was shy at school. She offered to cook me lunch whenever I had free time, and I could be friends with her son. She could help me with my Chinese. Maybe I could move in next door.
The entire car ride, she was stroking the lose strands of straw coming unraveled from her sunhat in her lap. It was not a calm sort of stroking, but nervous. I did not see anything to be nervous about, and it was not apparent in her face, but only in her hands. Her hands were detached from whatever was dictating directions to her eyes, mouth, nose. They were motivated by something else.
We picked the fruit, and looked around. We went through an old abandoned house where the pigs lived and slept one wall away from the people. We got stung by fire ants, and we got back in the car.
It was a comfortable ride back, but her hands continued stroking.
I tried to understand my place in this scenario. I was pushing my puzzle piece against all the others, seeing what fit. I was trying to understand the dynamic between the four people in the car, and making a conscious effort not to be unnecessarily wary. Her hands betrayed her face and worked with her words to portray an uneasiness. I felt she was asking me if I would like to fill a void somewhere. If I could be her son’s friend, if I liked to be there, if I wanted to come over. And yet, my thoughts were mostly inferences. I was reading between double spaced lines of language barriers and cultural differences. I zoomed out and looked at planet earth from outer space and reveled in the fact that I found myself in this car in this city on this island with these people I had not known existed just hours before.
When we arrived at her apartment building his dad washed the fruit, and his mom handed me another grocery bag, this one full of the fruit. He had to go, so he did. I had to go too. I had plans to go to a Moon Festival ceremony.
She asked if I needed to be led back, if I could find my way. I declined, thinking I would make better time on my own, avoiding the stop and go pace of the journey there. I also was positive I could find my way back and I was ready to be alone for a bit. She said okay, and led me back anyway.
This time we ended up side by side most of the time, her son staring at me from between her legs on the scooter, as children in Taiwan ride. A number of times I thought one of us would be hit, as our combined berth was twice as wide as it should have been. Halfway to the bookstore, or a sixth of the way home, she told me her son wanted to see my place. I laughed and smiled, and the light turned green.
At the next light he looked at me sincerely and said “我想去.” I smiled and said, “You want to go?” and he nodded earnestly and the light turned green. As we rode next to each other, I heard over the scooter engine, “我想去!” We arrived at the bookstore. I had come there by myself that morning, and there could not be any question of whether I needed help going back to my place. But he looked up in earnest. I laughed and smiled, and he persisted and looked.
I decided not to push against the grain any longer, and asked if she had time. “If you do not mind, then I have time,” she said.
I felt half anxious that I was involving myself too deeply in something I did not understand, and half happy to see her son’s beaming face. When they walked in to see my place, the first feeling dissipated as she commented, “Maybe $5,500 is a little bit expensive. This is not very big.”
I racked my brain for something I could give her son to return the generous gesture of burdening me with grocery bags full of food. I remembered I had been given some dried and salted plums, Taiwanese candy. “你喜歡這個嗎?” He nodded, and smiled when I gave them to him.
She dragged her son out, leaving me to shower and get ready. I waved them goodbye and watched them drive away on their scooter.
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