not for you
Grasslands.
That’s our name for the restaurant right next to work. There is, I suppose, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other restaurants dishing out “farmer food” other than exceptional quality and friendliness. Like many Chinese restaurants it is family run. There is a mother (I don’t know her name, I just call her Big Sister) and her two sons. The taller, friendlier of her sons is called Han Bing (said with the same tones, I believe, as if he were a type of Korean pancake). He’s a med student when he’s not working at the restaurant. He’s young and earnest and hence nicknamed, “Doogie Howser.”
Grasslands is one of the best things about life in Dongying. Han Bing and Big Sister teach us useful Chinese and put up with our western quirks. We also help Han Bing with his English homework. We force every visitor to eat there.
One such visitor was Heather. Heather is a friend of a friend. A Chinese-American whose parents where both from Guangdong province, she spoke no Mandarin. I think she could get by in Cantonese.
Being a non-speaking Asian American in China can generate some amusing/ exasperating experiences. There were taxi drivers that insisted on trying to talk to her rather than Shelley (who is totally fluent) and other bits of confusion.
Then there was her trip to Grasslands. She was introduced to Han Bing and Big Sister, and they found out that she couldn’t speak Mandarin and was from America. Big Sister said something and Han Bing translated, “She doesn’t like you.”
Heather was, I think, too shocked to be properly upset.
Chinese people can be amazingly blunt. They’ll call you fat, tell you have a big nose, point and laugh at your hair . . . the list goes on.
Heather was shocked, but the food arrived and no more issue needed to be made of it. But when we got to the plate of caramel covered apples, Han Bing decided to clarify.
“I like you,” he said, pointing to me, “and you and you,” to Elizabeth and Jessie.
And that was the end of the list.
I have an inkling of where this kind of sentiment comes from. Perhaps they feel that Chinese Americans have abandoned the homeland. Perhaps they suspect them of being Guomindang or Guomindang sympathizers.
Yet to understand is not to sympathize. This will forever remain one of those things about China that I just can’t get used to. Like when my fourth graders take turns taunting each other by saying, “you are a black, black man from Africa.”
Shelley arrived later and told Han Bing that they had hurt his friend’s feelings. Han Bing apologized in a not-really-understanding-why-he-apologized way. Things have been less family-like since then. Sometimes good things go away.
That’s our name for the restaurant right next to work. There is, I suppose, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other restaurants dishing out “farmer food” other than exceptional quality and friendliness. Like many Chinese restaurants it is family run. There is a mother (I don’t know her name, I just call her Big Sister) and her two sons. The taller, friendlier of her sons is called Han Bing (said with the same tones, I believe, as if he were a type of Korean pancake). He’s a med student when he’s not working at the restaurant. He’s young and earnest and hence nicknamed, “Doogie Howser.”
Grasslands is one of the best things about life in Dongying. Han Bing and Big Sister teach us useful Chinese and put up with our western quirks. We also help Han Bing with his English homework. We force every visitor to eat there.
One such visitor was Heather. Heather is a friend of a friend. A Chinese-American whose parents where both from Guangdong province, she spoke no Mandarin. I think she could get by in Cantonese.
Being a non-speaking Asian American in China can generate some amusing/ exasperating experiences. There were taxi drivers that insisted on trying to talk to her rather than Shelley (who is totally fluent) and other bits of confusion.
Then there was her trip to Grasslands. She was introduced to Han Bing and Big Sister, and they found out that she couldn’t speak Mandarin and was from America. Big Sister said something and Han Bing translated, “She doesn’t like you.”
Heather was, I think, too shocked to be properly upset.
Chinese people can be amazingly blunt. They’ll call you fat, tell you have a big nose, point and laugh at your hair . . . the list goes on.
Heather was shocked, but the food arrived and no more issue needed to be made of it. But when we got to the plate of caramel covered apples, Han Bing decided to clarify.
“I like you,” he said, pointing to me, “and you and you,” to Elizabeth and Jessie.
And that was the end of the list.
I have an inkling of where this kind of sentiment comes from. Perhaps they feel that Chinese Americans have abandoned the homeland. Perhaps they suspect them of being Guomindang or Guomindang sympathizers.
Yet to understand is not to sympathize. This will forever remain one of those things about China that I just can’t get used to. Like when my fourth graders take turns taunting each other by saying, “you are a black, black man from Africa.”
Shelley arrived later and told Han Bing that they had hurt his friend’s feelings. Han Bing apologized in a not-really-understanding-why-he-apologized way. Things have been less family-like since then. Sometimes good things go away.
posted by otis @ 1:07 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home