Sometimes the greatest traveling is one of very few miles
It's the journey of a heart when it has found another
One that it sees kindness and laughter in
One that is feels love and happiness with
One that it chooses to share all it's jokes, hopes, dreams, fears, failures, insecurities
All the things it holds precious
All the things that make a person an individual
All the things that matter
But not all adventures lead to glory
And not all hearts are full of kindness
When one heart shares with another heart it's contents
And the other leaves without a second look
The true meaning of loneliness is discovered
For being alone, without another, is one thing
But being alone, for another would not fight for you
Is another.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
An attempt at sense
Upon arriving in Beijing, we were informed that BOCOG had arranged a tour to help acclimate us to China and give us a better look at its people and culture. Needless to say, I was excited. My first trip across the earth to a foreign land, I was bursting with potentialities. The things I’d learn, the people I’d meet, and the experiences I’d savor. And this tour seemed like the appropriate starting point, a brief overview of everything China.
And then we found out where we were starting.
A water treatment facility.
Baffled as I was, there wasn’t much to do but accept this turn and embrace it. After all, there must be a reason for starting here. There was, of course, but I didn’t realize it until our government-sponsored tour was long over.
Our next stop: A preserved village, a Chinese community, “paradise”, that was intended to show us how people in China could live.
Suddenly, I realized this tour wasn’t the overview I’d been hoping for. I wasn’t going to find anything real here, or at least real in the sense of fully legitimate. What I WAS going to see was scripted for our American eyes. It was a journey with a message, a message to me in propaganda. At first, I was sickened. Literally. I couldn’t swallow the saccharine-covered pill they were feeding us. Did they think that we, journalism students from America, couldn’t see through the Mao-tinted glasses? Did they really expect us to buy this idyllic picture of China and it’s people? I was insulted.
And then I took a step back. With the help of a professor, I began to look at this tour differently. It wasn’t a study in Chinese culture; it was a study in messages, audience and propaganda. It was a chance to see what they thought of us, our biases, our expectations and what message they felt they needed to deliver to us. This was the perfect opportunity for us to see America looking at China looking at America,
So the study in propaganda begins with the water treatment facility.
(Disclaimer: The is purely a superficial study in propaganda, based only on this author’s first-hand experience.)
Alright, so the water treatment facility. Before arriving in China, every person that heard I was going responded with the same remark. “That’s incredible! But don’t drink the water.” Hell, we even covered it in class. It was as if we drank the tap water we’d be certain to incur Mao’s Revenge.
So it makes sense that the first place the Chinese government-sponsored tour takes us is a water plant. To show us silly Westerners that there’s really nothing to fear in the water. I mean, look how many steps removed it is from sewage. (That’s 3, for those counting at home. And it’s not enough me.)
I still don’t drink the water. I won’t even brush my teeth with the stuff.
And then our journey takes us to a real Chinese village, “paradise provided by the Communist Party of China,” or so the pamphlet we received read. This village was a theme park, equipped with a newly built Buddhist monastery “where people come to worship daily for China respects its Buddhist tradition”—never mind that during the reign of Emperor Wuzong in 845, he ordered the destruction of 4,600 Buddhist monasteries and 40,000 temples with another 250,000 Buddhist monks and nuns forced to give up their Buddhist lives.
That’s okay though…every country has its demons, especially one with such a long history. It’s just the blatant covering over such events with red paint (red symbolizes happiness in China) that turns my stomach.
Our tour continued to a retirement home. It was here we saw how wonderfully the Chinese take care of their elderly. They even sang us a song, in front of all their old folks. The song opened our eyes through beautiful lyrics to how happy these people were to end their lives here where they are treated with respect.
It might even be true—if only one of the old men or women looked up from their games long enough to give us a smile. And what’s more respectful then being treated like an animal in a zoo, stared at as living proof of China’s wonderful elderly care system.
But we weren’t done. Our final stop was into the home of an actual Chinese person. The house was spotless; the old woman who owned (and I use that word loosely) the place sat on a chair as countless Westerners invaded the living room. Upon further investigation there was no food in the cabinets, the bathroom looked unused and had a Western-style toilet (before some of our finest Westerners decided to relieve themselves) and the bed looked like it’s never been touched. When asked by one of the more culturally understanding students whether she liked living here she replied with a pause.
“….Yes.”
Whether that pause indicates anything is beyond me. I know I wouldn’t like living anywhere that conducted tours in my home. But I’m an old-fashioned Westerner.
And that’s what I learned on this tour. My biases. See, in China the propaganda is blatant. They don’t mask what they want you to believe. When they want you to believe that the government is great, they will tell you so by showing things such as these and telling you that it’s because of their great government.
We’re used to more subtle form of propaganda in America. Propaganda is leaked through the media, through entertainment and through advertising. It isn’t usually blatant. In fact, it tends to be more associative. But make no mistake, it’s there.
My disgust at Chinese propaganda was tempered by the reality of the situation. I was in a foreign land with foreign people with a foreign way of doing things. That includes propaganda. When you have as many people as China does, you need to reach them in the quickest way possible. Sometimes there’s no room for subtleties.
It was easy to direct my anger at China and it’s propaganda. It was harder to realize that the same practice goes on Stateside in a different form. And it was nearly impossible to accept that it’s my job as a human being, to see through all of it, and leave any frustrations on the wayside.
As Shakespeare wrote, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”
And then we found out where we were starting.
A water treatment facility.
Baffled as I was, there wasn’t much to do but accept this turn and embrace it. After all, there must be a reason for starting here. There was, of course, but I didn’t realize it until our government-sponsored tour was long over.
Our next stop: A preserved village, a Chinese community, “paradise”, that was intended to show us how people in China could live.
Suddenly, I realized this tour wasn’t the overview I’d been hoping for. I wasn’t going to find anything real here, or at least real in the sense of fully legitimate. What I WAS going to see was scripted for our American eyes. It was a journey with a message, a message to me in propaganda. At first, I was sickened. Literally. I couldn’t swallow the saccharine-covered pill they were feeding us. Did they think that we, journalism students from America, couldn’t see through the Mao-tinted glasses? Did they really expect us to buy this idyllic picture of China and it’s people? I was insulted.
And then I took a step back. With the help of a professor, I began to look at this tour differently. It wasn’t a study in Chinese culture; it was a study in messages, audience and propaganda. It was a chance to see what they thought of us, our biases, our expectations and what message they felt they needed to deliver to us. This was the perfect opportunity for us to see America looking at China looking at America,
So the study in propaganda begins with the water treatment facility.
(Disclaimer: The is purely a superficial study in propaganda, based only on this author’s first-hand experience.)
Alright, so the water treatment facility. Before arriving in China, every person that heard I was going responded with the same remark. “That’s incredible! But don’t drink the water.” Hell, we even covered it in class. It was as if we drank the tap water we’d be certain to incur Mao’s Revenge.
So it makes sense that the first place the Chinese government-sponsored tour takes us is a water plant. To show us silly Westerners that there’s really nothing to fear in the water. I mean, look how many steps removed it is from sewage. (That’s 3, for those counting at home. And it’s not enough me.)
I still don’t drink the water. I won’t even brush my teeth with the stuff.
And then our journey takes us to a real Chinese village, “paradise provided by the Communist Party of China,” or so the pamphlet we received read. This village was a theme park, equipped with a newly built Buddhist monastery “where people come to worship daily for China respects its Buddhist tradition”—never mind that during the reign of Emperor Wuzong in 845, he ordered the destruction of 4,600 Buddhist monasteries and 40,000 temples with another 250,000 Buddhist monks and nuns forced to give up their Buddhist lives.
That’s okay though…every country has its demons, especially one with such a long history. It’s just the blatant covering over such events with red paint (red symbolizes happiness in China) that turns my stomach.
Our tour continued to a retirement home. It was here we saw how wonderfully the Chinese take care of their elderly. They even sang us a song, in front of all their old folks. The song opened our eyes through beautiful lyrics to how happy these people were to end their lives here where they are treated with respect.
It might even be true—if only one of the old men or women looked up from their games long enough to give us a smile. And what’s more respectful then being treated like an animal in a zoo, stared at as living proof of China’s wonderful elderly care system.
But we weren’t done. Our final stop was into the home of an actual Chinese person. The house was spotless; the old woman who owned (and I use that word loosely) the place sat on a chair as countless Westerners invaded the living room. Upon further investigation there was no food in the cabinets, the bathroom looked unused and had a Western-style toilet (before some of our finest Westerners decided to relieve themselves) and the bed looked like it’s never been touched. When asked by one of the more culturally understanding students whether she liked living here she replied with a pause.
“….Yes.”
Whether that pause indicates anything is beyond me. I know I wouldn’t like living anywhere that conducted tours in my home. But I’m an old-fashioned Westerner.
And that’s what I learned on this tour. My biases. See, in China the propaganda is blatant. They don’t mask what they want you to believe. When they want you to believe that the government is great, they will tell you so by showing things such as these and telling you that it’s because of their great government.
We’re used to more subtle form of propaganda in America. Propaganda is leaked through the media, through entertainment and through advertising. It isn’t usually blatant. In fact, it tends to be more associative. But make no mistake, it’s there.
My disgust at Chinese propaganda was tempered by the reality of the situation. I was in a foreign land with foreign people with a foreign way of doing things. That includes propaganda. When you have as many people as China does, you need to reach them in the quickest way possible. Sometimes there’s no room for subtleties.
It was easy to direct my anger at China and it’s propaganda. It was harder to realize that the same practice goes on Stateside in a different form. And it was nearly impossible to accept that it’s my job as a human being, to see through all of it, and leave any frustrations on the wayside.
As Shakespeare wrote, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Walls
Hospitals are no fun and health care is no joke.
But before we go there, let's travel back some and indulge in Chinese efficiency, opening ceremony spectacle, Hooters and John 3:16, competitive subway riding, Freud's 'Civilization and Its Discontents,' Zambian track stars and the rest of the organized chaos I've been dwelling in.
Everyone, from family to friends I never knew I had (nor wanted), shoot me e-mail's daily to find out about China. "How is it?" Good. "Are you phones being tapped?" Sure. "Are people reading this e-mail?" No more than in the States. "Are you eating dog?" Well, have you seen my facebook picture? You get to pick what cute puppy you'd like for your meal each day, talk about democracy.
(By the way, I'm on the Amnesty International Website, Amnesty.org, as we speak.)
To an extent, I'm fed up with the questions. I've always been good at asking, but receiving is different, especially when their loaded with Western bias. Look, this place is far from perfect. I couldn't live here, I wouldn't want to be surrounded by 17 million people, I do enjoy a nice sky from to time, I can't deal with the lack of a nice stout and a good burger, I like my shower separate from my toilet (call me old fashion), and football season is starting soon...but this isn't Mao's China. Not in the way, I thought coming in. My, and yours, faithful reader, conception of Mao's China is as outdated as the Forbidden City.
This is a place where there are no laws: Only things you can and things you can't get away with. The only way to find out the difference is to do it. Might sound like a dangerous policy back home, but here it's worked just fine. Open container laws are non-existent, nor are drunk driving laws properly obeyed (that was NOT a fun cab ride), public urination is for this nation, jumping into the lake is fine (although not advisable for health reasons), and whatever is in your heart's desire, save for murder, rape, and political commentary, is worth a try.
Speaking of rape, funny story. I ordered some the other night. Fried Rape. I think it was a mushroom. It wasn't good.
Anyhow, this place isn't the impossible oppressive nation the media hangs out to dry anytime we need a collective enemy to rouse up some good ol' nationalism. In all likelihood, it's not much different than our fine nation. I think the only difference is the propaganda and each nation's way of using it. Back home, it's subtle. It's slipped under the radar, in advertisements and some 'news' organizations. We're a country of rhetoric and we use words carefully to avoid ever really saying anything.
Here, the propaganda is blatant and in your face. I wrestled with it for awhile, disgusted with the obvious. After all, can't people see through that. Surely 17 million people must gag at this shit. Maybe some do, maybe some don't. After all, our bullshit blinders are built differently. And of course they won't adopt our way of propaganda. That's admitting ours works better than theirs. West vs East. (Even though there's no real West vs East. We are so intrinsically tied to China through money that if China were ever to go down, we'd be below them to soften the fall.)
This isn't to sound unpatriotic. I love America. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt more like an American since I've been here. And I don't think I've ever been more proud to say I am one. But let's not get swept up in the Olympic sentimentality nationalistic bullshit. By the way, doesn't it strike you, faithful reader, odd that the Olympics, which supports one world, one dream, splits people up into nations and asks them to compete against each other. What better way to stir up nationalism and create larger walls between us.
But before we go there, let's travel back some and indulge in Chinese efficiency, opening ceremony spectacle, Hooters and John 3:16, competitive subway riding, Freud's 'Civilization and Its Discontents,' Zambian track stars and the rest of the organized chaos I've been dwelling in.
Everyone, from family to friends I never knew I had (nor wanted), shoot me e-mail's daily to find out about China. "How is it?" Good. "Are you phones being tapped?" Sure. "Are people reading this e-mail?" No more than in the States. "Are you eating dog?" Well, have you seen my facebook picture? You get to pick what cute puppy you'd like for your meal each day, talk about democracy.
(By the way, I'm on the Amnesty International Website, Amnesty.org, as we speak.)
To an extent, I'm fed up with the questions. I've always been good at asking, but receiving is different, especially when their loaded with Western bias. Look, this place is far from perfect. I couldn't live here, I wouldn't want to be surrounded by 17 million people, I do enjoy a nice sky from to time, I can't deal with the lack of a nice stout and a good burger, I like my shower separate from my toilet (call me old fashion), and football season is starting soon...but this isn't Mao's China. Not in the way, I thought coming in. My, and yours, faithful reader, conception of Mao's China is as outdated as the Forbidden City.
This is a place where there are no laws: Only things you can and things you can't get away with. The only way to find out the difference is to do it. Might sound like a dangerous policy back home, but here it's worked just fine. Open container laws are non-existent, nor are drunk driving laws properly obeyed (that was NOT a fun cab ride), public urination is for this nation, jumping into the lake is fine (although not advisable for health reasons), and whatever is in your heart's desire, save for murder, rape, and political commentary, is worth a try.
Speaking of rape, funny story. I ordered some the other night. Fried Rape. I think it was a mushroom. It wasn't good.
Anyhow, this place isn't the impossible oppressive nation the media hangs out to dry anytime we need a collective enemy to rouse up some good ol' nationalism. In all likelihood, it's not much different than our fine nation. I think the only difference is the propaganda and each nation's way of using it. Back home, it's subtle. It's slipped under the radar, in advertisements and some 'news' organizations. We're a country of rhetoric and we use words carefully to avoid ever really saying anything.
Here, the propaganda is blatant and in your face. I wrestled with it for awhile, disgusted with the obvious. After all, can't people see through that. Surely 17 million people must gag at this shit. Maybe some do, maybe some don't. After all, our bullshit blinders are built differently. And of course they won't adopt our way of propaganda. That's admitting ours works better than theirs. West vs East. (Even though there's no real West vs East. We are so intrinsically tied to China through money that if China were ever to go down, we'd be below them to soften the fall.)
This isn't to sound unpatriotic. I love America. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt more like an American since I've been here. And I don't think I've ever been more proud to say I am one. But let's not get swept up in the Olympic sentimentality nationalistic bullshit. By the way, doesn't it strike you, faithful reader, odd that the Olympics, which supports one world, one dream, splits people up into nations and asks them to compete against each other. What better way to stir up nationalism and create larger walls between us.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Random Quotes
Starting with the egotist in me.
Mr. Mike Nagel:
"You're the glue that holds this group together. You talk to everyone and get them together. You're a good guy."
Tonight:
Dining in the smoke filled back room of a Uighur restaurant, a group of young and rowdy locals pound back beers in between laughter and clapping. After numerous clangs of glass and exchanges of good wishes, we buy these fine gentlemen and lady a round. Before we leave the most vocal of the group stands up and pronounces:
"You go. Before we sing a song."
We agree.
He begins:
"This land is your land, this land is my land..."
And the divide disappears.
Mr. Mike Nagel:
"You're the glue that holds this group together. You talk to everyone and get them together. You're a good guy."
Tonight:
Dining in the smoke filled back room of a Uighur restaurant, a group of young and rowdy locals pound back beers in between laughter and clapping. After numerous clangs of glass and exchanges of good wishes, we buy these fine gentlemen and lady a round. Before we leave the most vocal of the group stands up and pronounces:
"You go. Before we sing a song."
We agree.
He begins:
"This land is your land, this land is my land..."
And the divide disappears.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Mao Money, Mao Problems
Time moves fast on the other side of the world. Maybe it has something to do with the time travel that was my flight over here but I can't seem to get on the same page these days. I'm moving quickly but it sure doesn't feel like I'm going anywhere. I'm talking plenty but not saying a word most people can understand--except pijiu (beer.)
This is where I work:
National Stadium aka The Bird's Next. Yesterday my fellow flash quote reporters and I had a scavenger hunt inside the diamond of China's Olympic Crown. The building seats 91,000 people and there's plenty of room to spare. The innovative steel design is breathtaking and I'm sure NBC will have a blast broadcasting it.
I wandered through the tunnel and onto the field and thought what it would be like to be an athlete stepping out to 91,000 screaming people as you get ready to run the race of your life. I got choked up just imagining it.
I also saw some of the rehearsals for the Opening Ceremony. I won't say anything else though. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise (or end up in jail.)
This needed to be posted at some point. Bruce cooling off at the ruins:
Not much else to report. The food's great, the people are many, beer and cigarettes are cheap, and soon enough I won't have time for anything. I got my schedule yesterday. From Friday the 15th until Sunday the 24th I have one single day off, the 20th. The rest shall be days for interviewing athletes and transmitting quotes via Info2008.
I did, however, score the Olympic Gold medal game for Futbol. Not bad. Sure beats Racewalking--which I also landed.
This is where I work:
National Stadium aka The Bird's Next. Yesterday my fellow flash quote reporters and I had a scavenger hunt inside the diamond of China's Olympic Crown. The building seats 91,000 people and there's plenty of room to spare. The innovative steel design is breathtaking and I'm sure NBC will have a blast broadcasting it.
I wandered through the tunnel and onto the field and thought what it would be like to be an athlete stepping out to 91,000 screaming people as you get ready to run the race of your life. I got choked up just imagining it.
I also saw some of the rehearsals for the Opening Ceremony. I won't say anything else though. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise (or end up in jail.)
This needed to be posted at some point. Bruce cooling off at the ruins:
Not much else to report. The food's great, the people are many, beer and cigarettes are cheap, and soon enough I won't have time for anything. I got my schedule yesterday. From Friday the 15th until Sunday the 24th I have one single day off, the 20th. The rest shall be days for interviewing athletes and transmitting quotes via Info2008.I did, however, score the Olympic Gold medal game for Futbol. Not bad. Sure beats Racewalking--which I also landed.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The End of Week One
Well, I made it.
For the first seven days, at least.
And it's been everything I've expected and nothing I could imagine all in one fried pumpkin dumpling.
The Great Wall was the Great Work-Out, The Summer Palace, in a bizarre way, reminded me of Summer's in Jersey, being out on a boat in the middle of a lake with two friends just taking it all in, the Chinese Opera a cultural experience unlike anything I've ever encountered, the ruins of the Winter Palace, a harsh reminder of Western destruction, the Chinese village, a blatant living-portrait of Communist propaganda, the people lining the streets, patient and quick, graceful and rushed--everything is a mystery to this provincial boy.
Friendships formed under this pressure make me feel fortunate. The human condition in it's unbending strength and unavoidable frailty is front and center.
Today we went to St. Regis Hotel and we're treated like royalty. Scotch, champagne, and a Monte Cristo-- the only way to wrap up the first week of a grand adventure.
Still--I look forward to our adventure, the first, the last, the greatest, the only.
For the first seven days, at least.
And it's been everything I've expected and nothing I could imagine all in one fried pumpkin dumpling.
The Great Wall was the Great Work-Out, The Summer Palace, in a bizarre way, reminded me of Summer's in Jersey, being out on a boat in the middle of a lake with two friends just taking it all in, the Chinese Opera a cultural experience unlike anything I've ever encountered, the ruins of the Winter Palace, a harsh reminder of Western destruction, the Chinese village, a blatant living-portrait of Communist propaganda, the people lining the streets, patient and quick, graceful and rushed--everything is a mystery to this provincial boy.
Friendships formed under this pressure make me feel fortunate. The human condition in it's unbending strength and unavoidable frailty is front and center.
Today we went to St. Regis Hotel and we're treated like royalty. Scotch, champagne, and a Monte Cristo-- the only way to wrap up the first week of a grand adventure.
Still--I look forward to our adventure, the first, the last, the greatest, the only.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Day Two
Frustrating and fantastic.
A simple trip downtown, to WalMart of all places, proved the first (of what I'm sure will be many) difficult and disorienting experience. People littered the isles, products were all foreign, and even the familiar such as Chips Ahoy! looked alien. Not to mention the smell--not particularly bad but certainly unfamiliar.
The inability to communicate makes even the trivial seem insurmountable. Gesturing with hands and remaining patient is a must as the only two phrases in Mandarin I'm comfortable with are "I'm sorry" and "I don't understand." Just about sums up my exchanges with the locals.
Night was an entirely different beast. Seth, Mikala and the Aussies went out to Donata's, a surprisingly good pizza place just outside of the CUC. Cheap beer, cold beer and good people go a long way.
After nourishment of the body and spirit, Seth and I went downtown with the Aussies to explore the bar scene. And like all great explorers, we were not content to stay in one place for too long. What followed was a night of heavy drinking (starting with a drink called the freak-out, a drink that needed to be lit on fire and it's fumes inhaled) and Western bonding. Man needs to know he's not alone in the struggle, and once realizing this it becomes not a struggle but an adventure.
After our final bar and some hookah we stumbled into a cab and were dropped off in the wrong place. The prototypical dark alley that all foreigners are told to avoid. After passing around a card with our address to a group of strangers, we attempted to return to our home. Of course, with no sense of where we were or where we were supposed to be, the effort proved futile.
Except a stranger ran after us explaining in broken English that he was a student at the CUC and he could take us there. Wary of a stranger in the night, we followed the man down side streets. The Aussies wanted to shake him, believing he was just looking for some money.
That wasn't the case.
He led us back on our campus and departed wishing us a good stay in Beijing.
A simple trip downtown, to WalMart of all places, proved the first (of what I'm sure will be many) difficult and disorienting experience. People littered the isles, products were all foreign, and even the familiar such as Chips Ahoy! looked alien. Not to mention the smell--not particularly bad but certainly unfamiliar.
The inability to communicate makes even the trivial seem insurmountable. Gesturing with hands and remaining patient is a must as the only two phrases in Mandarin I'm comfortable with are "I'm sorry" and "I don't understand." Just about sums up my exchanges with the locals.
Night was an entirely different beast. Seth, Mikala and the Aussies went out to Donata's, a surprisingly good pizza place just outside of the CUC. Cheap beer, cold beer and good people go a long way.
After nourishment of the body and spirit, Seth and I went downtown with the Aussies to explore the bar scene. And like all great explorers, we were not content to stay in one place for too long. What followed was a night of heavy drinking (starting with a drink called the freak-out, a drink that needed to be lit on fire and it's fumes inhaled) and Western bonding. Man needs to know he's not alone in the struggle, and once realizing this it becomes not a struggle but an adventure.
After our final bar and some hookah we stumbled into a cab and were dropped off in the wrong place. The prototypical dark alley that all foreigners are told to avoid. After passing around a card with our address to a group of strangers, we attempted to return to our home. Of course, with no sense of where we were or where we were supposed to be, the effort proved futile.
Except a stranger ran after us explaining in broken English that he was a student at the CUC and he could take us there. Wary of a stranger in the night, we followed the man down side streets. The Aussies wanted to shake him, believing he was just looking for some money.
That wasn't the case.
He led us back on our campus and departed wishing us a good stay in Beijing.
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