Congratulations St. Louis Cardinals, 2011 World Champions . . . of the "World"

My wayward daughter and I at her one and only Major
League game two years ago in St. Louis.

Since I was 9 years old I have been a Cub fan . . .  but not the disgruntled kind.  I'm not mad that the team I pledged my lifetime allegiance to in the prime vulnerability of my pre-pubescent youth hasn't been to the World Series since World War II (stupid goat).  I'm not even frustrated that they haven't actually won since the early 17th century.  I'm not that kind of Cub fan.  I'm not so petty that I can't extend a congratulatory high five and a good, firm slap on the back to my unenlightened friends who root for our arch rivals and sworn enemies as they celebrate toppling the Rangers to win the Series . . . for the 11th time . . . since our one.  I'm not bitter.   

Really.  I'm not.

My eight year old daughter has decided to be a Cardinal fan.  I have chosen to love her anyway.  That's how not bitter I am.  She is free to follow any team she chooses and like the majority of fans in the world she has taken the easy road.  Don't judge her harshly.  She is young and naive and doesn't yet fully understand that being a fan is not about winning . . . it's about almost winning and never quite getting there.  It's about the faint glimmer of hope that someday, somehow your team will do something, anything good, dipped in the cold, unspoken reality that they just probably won't.  Being a die hard fan is not about jumping up and down when your team wins . . . anyone can do that.  It's about hollow dreams, misguided passion and freakishly stubborn resolve even when you don't win . . . for more than a century. 

All things considered, it was fun to watch game 7 with her all the way over here in China and cheer her Cards on to victory.  Watching big American championship games in China is always fun but lacks the atmosphere and buzz of being back home.  Superbowl parties generally begin around 7am and include pancakes but may not include commercials.  We saw the Cardinals win about 8 hours after it happened but were still able to enjoy it without knowing who was going to win.  Just me, my Card fan 8 year old and my 2 year old son who was cheering, "Go CUBBIES!"  I lost one . . . I will not lose the other.

So Congratulations Cardinals on once again winning the World Series . . . wait, I mean "World" (finger quotes) Series.  Don't for a moment let it steal your joy that of the world's 234 nations only 2 are eligible to compete in this self proclaimed "world" event or that those two nations represent about 5% of the people in that world.  Take heart redbirds because 25 million people tuned in to watch you win!!  That is significant St. Louis.  That means that on the entire planet only 99.6% of the human population were not watching.  You are indeed world champions . . . in your own little way.  And to you fans of the "World" Champions, hold your head high.  Don't let the numbers get you down because really . . . no one likes a bitter fan.        

I would like to point out however that in real life a bear (even a baby one) would maul and eat a bird (even a red one with a big bat).  Next year.        

The End of My Blog: Everything You Want to Know About China

Here it is.  Everything I want to tell you about China in ten minutes . . . with pictures.  No need for me to keep writing.  Well done piece. Enjoy.

You May Not Actually Be Cool: Please Read This Before You Get a Chinese Tattoo

This poor guy thought he was getting a very cool "OUTLAW"
tattoo but instead came away with "HIDING CRIMINAL"
which basically carries the meaning "RAT FINK".
Not as cool.

I have never been cool.  I've spent nearly 4 decades just behind the trend curve and the closest I have come was that mullet just four years after mullets were hot (and they were hot).  I used to blame my mother who said no Nike's in the fourth grade, no rat tail in the fifth grade, no parachute pants in the sixth grade, no red, pleather, Michael Jackson zipper coat in the seventh grade and no earring . . . ever.  She just didn't see the value of cool.

Now I am thankful.  If it had not been for the absolute inability to be cool that she planted deep in the core of my very being I'm guessing I would have a tattoo by now.  That thought cross-referenced with the trend over the past decade and my connection to China would lead me to think that my tattoo would be (like all of the cool kids these days) a Chinese character . . . or the Fonz . . . or the Fonz with a tattoo of a Chinese character.  How cool would that be?

Here is the problem . . . Translation is a vicious beast.

Speaking Chinese is hard (go here and here and here to learn more about that) but translating is a whole new level of pain.  If speaking Chinese is a bear then translating it is a fire breathing T-Rex with laser beam eyes and a big tattoo that says "Bears taste good" (in Chinese).  The cardinal sin of translation is that the translator makes the mistake of thinking language is words.  Language is actually layer after layer of grammar and structure and rules and exceptions to rules and culture and history and emotion and . . . that list goes on for a while.  So when you ask, "what's the Chinese word for 'I love you baby cakes?" you might end up with something that actually means "Your child's flap jacks are loving and generous to me."

The "filth room" is the Janitors closet at the
hospital down the street from our home.

Expats in China get a lot of giggles out of poorly translated Chinese (go here for "The Onion Explodes the Mutton and Other Fine Chinese Dishes") but the translation beast eats Western food too.  There are multiple thousands of very cool looking Chinese tattoos out there that would cause a Chinese crowd to laugh out loud (not with them . . . at them).

At least they're not alone.


Here's an excerpt from the NY Times on the subject:


"Marquis Daniels, of the Dallas Mavericks, thought he was getting his initials in Chinese characters but what his arm actually says is "healthy woman roof," . . .  Shawn Marion of the Phoenix Suns was under the impression that his nickname, "the Matrix," was tattooed on his leg, but the inscription translates as something like "demon bird moth balls." . . . Britney Spears . . . reportedly got a tattoo she thought said "mysterious" but actually meant "strange."


I also heard a rumor that one of the Spice Girls tried for a "Girl Power" tattoo and ended up with "Electric Woman".  No idea if that's true . . . but it's funny. 


Just for fun I've taken up translating.  These are the love songs that I would have tattooed on my body by now . . . if I was cool.  I translated them into Chinese using iciba.com (a Chinese online translator) and then back into English using Google Translate


1. I'm everything I am, because you loved me (first dance at my wedding)  = "Because you believe me because you love me that I"
2. You are the wind beneath my wings = "You breeze in my arms under"
3. I got you babe = "The same car with the boys" (?)
4. Nothing compares to you = "You . . . unparalleled" (actually cooler)
5. You light up my life = "You light up my life" (about the same cool only it probably really means "you set me on fire")


So pretty please . . . before you tarnish your body for life with a Chinese typo . . . send me your text and I'll have it proofread by real live Chinese people.  If I can't be cool, at least I can help you be.

Check out these sites for more translations gone horribly wrong:
Hanzismatter.blogspot.com
Engrish.com
  

The Day Grandma Got Us Kicked Out of Mexico

My dear Grandma (who is presently enjoying heaven) was once described by my mother (her own daughter) as being (and I quote) "about as cheerful as diarrhea".  She rarely spoke (and she was rarely not speaking) without mentioning someone who had recently passed on or someone who was about to pass on or how she felt like her time to pass on was coming up quickly.  She had a certain offensive obliviousness to her that allowed her to completely insult an entire room full (possibly a city full) of people and genuinely have absolutely no shred of a concept that she might have alluded to something even remotely unpleasant.  When we told her we were adopting a child from China her first response was . . .

"Couldn't you get one from America?"

Then I think she said something awkwardly invasive about the working order of our reproductive systems.  It was weird.  She redeemed herself, however, after we adopted Rachel by telling her Korean doctor (who proudly displayed a picture of her own daughter on the office wall), "You ain't got nuthin' on me . . . I got me a little Chinese girl too.  She's my granddaughter!" 

I never once sensed an ounce of sincere hatred in her heart for any group or race of people (except for maybe Southern Baptists) but by today's standards she would register on the polar opposite end of the scale from politically correct . . . or polite . . . or acceptable in public.

IRONICALLY . . . I think it might have been my grandmother who planted the first seeds of cross-cultural curiosity in me.  Grandpa was a WWII vet and then a General Baptist Pastor (not Particular . . . not Reformed and most certainly not Southern Baptist . . . bite your tongue heretic) for more than 50 years.  He and Grandma made several trips to the Holy Land (the General Baptist one) and when they did they took the chance to see some other parts of the world a bit.  When I was five they were the only people in my life who had seen any parts of the world a bit which made them my superheros.  I had a stuffed camel from Egypt, some wooden shoes from Holland and a "My Grandma and Grandpa went to Jerusalem and all I got was this stinking t-shirt" t-shirt.  I was king for three straight weeks of show and tell. 

When I was 12, it was Grandma who led me on my first authentic cross-cultural adventure.  My cousins and I went on vacation with my grandparents all the way to California.  They crammed us, along with the luggage, into the back of a 19 seventy something, Chevy Station Wagon where we laughed and fought and blew southern winds for 12 hours a day (Grandma's euphemism . . . not mine . . . "Did you boys blow another southern wind? Alva stop this car, somebody needs to go sit on the toilet").    We stopped to visit distant cousins once removed in Yuma, Arizona which just happened to be right across the border from . . . a whole other country.  I had never been so excited in my life.

I can't remember if I begged or not but I so wanted to go to Mexico.  In my mind it would make me the coolest kid in Illinois.  "Where'd you go for summer vacation?  oh really?  Iowa?  That sounds nice . . . me?   Oh no place really . . . just MEXICO!!  The whole other COUNTRY!!  where they eat TACOS!! and they speak MEXICAN!!"  

I didn't say I was savvy. . . or in touch with reality.  Just curious.

So we went . . . and it was amazing.  It was at least 150 degrees (Fahrenheit, Celsius . . . doesn't matter at that point). The streets were dusty because it hadn't rained in over a century.  There were burros in the middle of the road and men with massive hats leaned against the shade trees taking naps or playing enormous guitars (in the interest of integrity I should mention that my memory is actually a bit fuzzy and some of this may be coming from Speedy Gonzalez cartoons) . . . but it was amazing.   

I do remember very well one shop owner shouting, "COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!"  That was the man who would soon hate my grandma.  He welcomed us in to look at his hand sewn, Mexican purses . . . from Mexico.  Grandma found one she liked and asked if he would accept U.S. dollars.  "Of course! Of course, anything for you lady!"  And then it began . . .

"How much?"

"For you lady . . . $14"

smiling because she knew in her heart what she was about to do "no no . . . I'll give you 7"

smiling because he had no idea the force he was reckoning with,  "Oh lady . . . for you, 13."

"Nah . . . 7"

"Oh come on lady . . . I come down you come up . . . I'll go 12"

squinting confidently with a smirk "mmm . . . how about 7?"

squinting in disgust  "you give me 10 lady"

nothing but a grin 

He continued "9! . . . 9 dollars, that's my lowest price!! You give me 9 dollars, I give you the purse.  Come on!  You like the purse!  It's a good purse! 9 dollars . . . . (long pause) . . . . EIGHT DOLLARS!! You give me EIGHT DOLLARS!  COME ON LADY!!"  

I swear this happened.  My Grandma said "5".

"FIVE DOLLARS?!! YOU ALREADY SAID 7!! YOU CAN'T SAY 5!! 

Still grinning.  "Yeah, I think 5 now."

pulling out handfuls of his own hair. "LADY I GIVE YOU YOUR PRICE, SEVEN DOLLARS!!!"  

"hmm . . . nah . . . five."

"OK!! OK!! OKAAAY!! FIVE DOLLARS!! YOU WIN YOU WIN, YOU *something I think was a Mexican cuss word.*

And I swear this happened too . . . My Grandma said, "nah."  

And she walked away.  Seriously, she walked away.  She successfully bargained a man nearly 30% below her own starting price . . . and she walked away.  I looked back and saw the man turn cherry red starting at his feet and rising to his head.  His eyes bugged out, steam came out of his ears and he blew his sombrero off like a train whistle (that may have been from Speedy Gonzalez too but I really don't think it was).

We shopped for a few hours and then finally came back around to the same little store.

"COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!" He locked eyes with my Grandma.  "Oh you  . . . GET OUT!!!!!!"

I miss you Grandma.  Thanks for planting (in a way that only you could) a seed in me that has led me all over the planet and given me two of the most beautiful kids in the world . . . Oh yeah  . . . we adopted again . . . remember that African-American doctor you had? (I think you called him colored)  . . . well he ain't got nuthin' on you."  

Zai Jian Jezza

Jezza eating scorpion in his first week in
China.  That's when I knew I was going to
like him.

I love the sweet simplicity of "goodbye" in Chinese.  

"Zai Jian"

Go ahead . . . You try it.  I'll wait . . .

Nope, you said it wrong.  The "Z" actually has kind of a "dz" sound to it and then the "AI" sounds like "eye" and the "Jian" sounds more like a girl named "Jen" than "gee Ann" or "gee on" . . . that means "a chicken who can't sit still" and frankly, that's just weird.  It's ok.  Everybody get's it wrong the first time. Go ahead and give it another shot.  Ready . . . "DZEYE JEN" . . .

Um . . . No . . . Your tones were wrong (click here for more about tones).  You said "I'm in between places" which is a little confusing without context.  Are you literally standing in between two places? more figuratively stuck between a rock and a hard place? looking for a job? just broke off a relationship but looking for a new one?  Maybe try waving your hand when you say it and then pointing to yourself and the door.  Just don't stop in the doorway because then you would actually be between two places that would just add to the confusion.

But really . . . when you say it right (which you're obviously not going to do today) it's actually quite nice.  "Zai" means "again" and "Jian" means "to see".  "See you again."  I like that.

Especially on weeks like this when we say farewell to our intern Jeremy.  You can call him by his Australian name Jezza (even though he's not Australian).  You can also try to call him by his Chinese name "Jie Li Mi" but we've seen how well you do with "goodbye" and there's a good chance you'll actually call him "Secret Plum Festival" . . . which is weird.  Jeremy has been here for a year and will be going home Tuesday (at least for a few months) leaving a cavernous hole in our existence (guilt trip intentional).  He has become a vital part of our company and a fully functioning member of our family.  He has taken on every task we have assigned him without complaint and done it well.  He has changed my sons poopy diapers, lost several limbs in light saber battles with my daughter and gotten us to world 6 on Super Mario.  He has fully engaged China and the expat community in its many forms and he will be deeply missed.

Thankfully this is not "goodbye" it is only "zai jian."  So go love on your other family for a bit and then get back here as soon as you can.

See you again Secret Plum Festival.  We love you. 

The Day Doritos Came to China

There was much rejoicing and jubilation the day Doritos came to China.  I remember it vividly because my fingertips were stained orange for weeks.  I was deep in the trenches of my first battle with culture shock and longing, begging, aching for something . . . anything, remotely American.  Seeing those crispy, cheesy ultra-hydrogenated triangles smothered in powdered, cheddary goodness tripped my switch like a Pavlovian dog and I drooled puddles all over aisle three of the Changsha Wal-Mart.  The bags were half the size of the ones from home . . . so I had to buy ten of them.  The next day my stomach hurt . . . but I'm pretty sure I bought ten more. 

People like to talk about the pros and cons of the rapid fire changes that are reshaping China.  Are they good?  Bad?  Ugly?  Can an ancient civilization withstand the impact that comes with freakish economic growth?  Is Urbanization offering new hope to the impoverished countryside or creating uncontainable social disturbances?  Is Westernization breathing new life into a struggling system or slowly corroding a magnificent, ancient culture?  If you said yes (or no) (or maybe) (or how should I know?) (or I don't give a whoop) to all of these, you are probably right.   

Flag Square

When we first moved to Qingdao I went on a walk, with my family through Flag Square.  Flag Square embodies the very heart of the new, globier China more than any place I've seen.  204 beautifully displayed national flags representing the 2008 Olympic gathering of the entire world in a nation that has barely been open for business with most of those nations for three decades.  From the square (which is actually a circle) you can see the enormous Olympic rings overlooking the harbor that hosted the sailing venue and the four-story torch is rarely not surrounded by picture snapping tourists.  On the right day you can even catch the inspirational Olympic anthems like One World One Dream and I Love Beijing blaring through the loud speakers although these days it's more likely you'll hear Taylor Swift or Randy Travis (seriously . . . Randy Travis . . . in China).   This one spot is a picture perfect emblem of China gone global.

I was pushing my baby in his stroller (pram, buggy etc.) with my 6 year old daughter and my wife when right in front of me two cars pulled up (where cars are not supposed to be mind you).  Car number one? A cherry red Porsche driven by a doe-eyed, teenage girl.  Number two?  Maserati.  Teenage boy.  There was nothing about this picture that was even remotely thinkable a generation ago in China.  They stopped for just a moment.  She looked back at him and gave a flirty little, "can't catch me" giggle.  Then she drove away.  You could physically see the testosterone oozing out of the Maserati.  He was trying to play it cool but any man who had ever survived puberty could see exactly what was going on.

What happened next defines the paradox of globalization for me.  He stomped on the accelerator, spinning this gorgeous machine into a perfect, screaming circle.  The stench of burning rubber was thick and in a flash he was off like a hormone driven teenage Cheetah in pursuit of the gazelle in the cherry red Porsche.

I was furious.  He spun dangerously close to my 10 month old baby.  I threw up my arms in disgust and pointed to my son as he zoomed past.  I tried to think of something mean to say in Chinese but I didn't get to that lesson yet so I just growled . . . like an angry lion whom as you know, eat Cheetahs for breakfast (it's true, I think I saw it on the National Geographic Channel).  

My daughter sensed my frustration and tried to be the peacemaker.  “Dad.  I don’t think he made such a good choice, did he?” Still fuming I barked, “No honey, he sure didn’t.”  She came back with a reassuring, “Dad.  If I had that car I would never do that.”  

She got me.  

In the middle of my disgust and anger I was forced to admit that that was absolutely, 100% the coolest thing I had seen all day.  $120,000 (maybe double with import fees) worth of pure Italian perfection, driven solely by pubescent, Chinese machismo smokes its tires into a flawless donut (that I swear was on fire for just a moment), surrounded by the flags of countries who, just 30 years ago, were vehemently uninvited to even stand in the very spot that it was happening.  In the interest of an vulnerable, teachable moment I responded to my daughter, “That’s great honey.  I probably would do that . . . but I would make sure there were no babies around first.”

New China is both amazing and infuriating.   It’s exciting and maddening.  It’s thrilling and painful.  It is the best bits of Western culture that came over on the same boat as the worst bits and now live together with the best and worst bits of the East.  It’s a wonderfully challenging mix of “Are you kidding me?!” and “That was incredible!”  It's jubilation and a stomach ache.  It’s Doritos.  

Thank You Adoptive Mothers for Getting Rid of Osama Bin Laden . . . Again

This just in . . . A courageous band of mothers who have adopted from China have taken down Osama Bin Laden.

I still consider myself a rookie when it comes to this blogging thing but I'm having a boatload of fun with it.  I think the truest quote I have heard so far is "Blogging -- Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few."  Still . . . I'm getting a kick out of writing, playing with the newest gadgets and watching the stats.  However it has been just a little bit disconcerting that since May 4th when I posted "Turn Off the Light Stupid: What China Thinks of Bin Laden" that I have had a picture of said Bin Laden right over there on the right side of my blog (where my kids and the Angry Bird are now).  Not entirely my fault, I just plugged in the gadget that automatically lists your top three posts and Osama got more attention than anything else (I blame my readers mostly).  So there they have been . . . pictures of my perfectly precious daughter, my Obamish, beefcake of a son and the iconic face of global terrorism.  Try as I might I just couldn't come up with anything that would attract enough hits to knock him off of his perch (sounds familiar).

Then it happened.  In one day a repost on China Adopt Talk.com drove more than a thousand hits (small potatoes for good bloggers but a big day for me) to my site and pfft he was gone.  Nicely done ladies (gentlemen too . . . but mostly ladies).  We salute you.

If you want to read about some very cool adventures of families that were brought together through the beauty and chaos of adoption in China then click here . . . and here . . . or here . . . and here too . . . or go to China Adopt Talk.com and poke around.  And if you want some brilliant insight into what it is like to really live, really love and foster a beautiful baby in China then you should definitely try walking to China . . . the blog . . . not the actual hike . . . that would be silly.

One more thing -- I'm realizing the irony of a post celebrating the removal of a picture of Osama Bin Laden which also includes the exact same picture of Osama Bin Laden but I read somewhere that irony tricks more people into reading your blog.  I'm also realizing that if I trick too many people into reading this post then Osama's picture will once again be in the top three and right over there with the angry bird which would be even more ironic . . . and trick even more people into reading my blog.  I told you . . . this is fun.

AAND . . . the true irony?  My son (who replaced Osama as #3 on the top three list) . . . his birthday?

(pause for dramatic effect)

September 11th.  Whoa.


Thanks for reading

You Want Birds With That? Humbling Moments for a Language Faker

I got blasted with a dose of my own indignance this week.  

Chinese is tonal.  If you haven't tried to learn it then that means nothing to you.  It's pointless trivia, like "celery has negative calories" or "bats always turn left when they exit a cave".  All true (verified via the internet) but knowing it adds zero value to your life (maybe negative . . . like celery . . . and calories).  If you have tried to learn Chinese however, then the overwhelming significance of these three words just made you vomit a little bit in your mouth.

A Quick Chinese Lesson for the Vomitless:
If you say "ma" it means "mother" (stink - Chinese is easy! what are you whining about?).  However, if you say "ma" it means "horse" and if you say "ma" it means "anesthesia" and if you say "ma" it means "hemp" and if you say "ma" it means "tingly and numb" and if you say "ma" it means "sesame" and if you say "Ma" you may be speaking to a guy named Mr. Ma . . . or you may be trying to speak to Mr. Ma but you're actually calling him "Mr. Sesame" and if you're introducing him to your mother you may actually be saying "Hey Mr. Sesame this is my horse" or "this is my anesthesia" or "this is my hemp" for which you could be arrested and possibly executed (see here for more on that) all because you used the wrong tone.

It's the most felt challenge of living as a foreigner in China.  Not so much the threat of execution but the daily, blood boiling, teeth grinding irritation of knowing that you are saying the right word and getting nothing but a blank stare.  I have seen some of the sweetest, tenderest, most loving souls I know transformed into screaming, blubbering freaks because the taxi driver just can't understand their well rehearsed Chinese.

"SESAME STREET! YOU MORON!  SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?!!"


And the driver stares blankly because all he hears is, "Mother Street! Horse Street! Anesthesia Street! Can you please tell me how to get to Tingly and Numb Street?!"


Hence the vomit.


The result is a heavy dependence on context.  Maybe my tones are off but if I can get the surrounding words to make sense then generally the Chinese listener will graciously figure it out.  "OOHH - This is not really his horse, in fact she is not a horse at all . . . he probably means his mother." However the Ma of all frustrations is when the context is crystal clear, the phonetics are spot on, the tones are just slightly off and there is still a total failure to communicate.  "I SO know that I am SO close so why can't you understand me?!"

Checking into a hotel in Beijing last week I got the tables turned on me.  I was holding up the line as the front desk girl and I flipped through my family's passport books searching for the right visas and stamps.  Her English was rough but I was catching most of it.  My Chinese was rougher but she was gracious.  Finally we got the visa issues settled and she looked me straight in the eye and said . . .

"How about birds?"

You know that moment when you have no clue what is going on but your mind races to make something up?  I got stuck there. I was certain I misheard her so I questioned, "I'm sorry?"

"Birds"

In about three seconds this was my thought process, *are there birds in the room? I don't think I want birds in my room.  I've seen birds for sale on the street, do they sell birds here? Is there some type of giveaway that I don't know about?  This is a holiday weekend, maybe they give birds to customers for Chinese National Day.  That would be really strange considering this is an airport hotel and most of the customers will be flying home soon.  Do they expect us to take birds home on the airplane with us? You can't do that.  I know China's basic view on animal rights is different than where I come from but really?  Birds?  In my suitcase?  They are so going to stop me at security.  I wonder what color they are.*

"I'm sorry . . . what?"

She repeated, "Birds."

Blank stare.

"Do you want one or two birds in your room."

I was so thoroughly confused.  *My two year old son will never go to sleep if we have any birds in our room.  Why would you put birds in my room?!*

I could sense her frustration but still smiling she said, "Chuang."

"OOHH  Beds!"

Dear China:  I'm sorry for snapping at your taxi drivers and thinking bad thoughts about you because you don't understand my tones.  You win.

For more about the pain and joy of learning Chinese go here:
Confessions of a Language Faker
The Diarrhea Clinic and Why I Think it's Funny