“Hey Fatty” and Other Things You Hope Your Four Year Old Never Says in Public

Ju Potty MouthWe are easing back into the American life one baby step at a time.

While eating our frozen yogurt in Costco last evening we had one of those horrifying parent moments.  As a gentleman of  the . . . ahem . . .  portly persuasion walked past our table, our son’s eyes widened, his pupils dilated, his jaw dropped and we could see it coming.  Unfortunately not soon enough to prevent it from happening.  He stated loudly and with great surprise in his voice,

“HE’S SO FAT!!”

There are actually multiple, simultaneous biological functions that occur when events like this conspire.  As your entire digestive system shrivels up like a styrofoam cup on a bonfire your heart accelerates to 18 times its normal pace which expands the capillaries beginning in your face and rushing throughout your body knocking the plug off of your pituitary gland which unleashes a fire hydrant surge of the endorphins that cause embarrassment and shame. This causes an involuntary avoidance of eye contact and a quick prayer for God to administer momentary, retroactive deafness to everyone in the Costco food court.

 

I will now state my case for why we are not the worst parents on the planet

 

1.  Our son is 4 

Four year olds have an innocent fascination with anything that appears outside of their frame of reference.  I believe he intended no malice.

 

2.  Our son has grown up in China where:

a. There is a considerably lower percentage of portly people

b. We rarely panicked when he would say  embarrassing things because the surrounding crowd, most likely, didn’t speak English well enough to understand a three year old.  This was especially beneficial when he was 9 months and accidentally screamed obscenities every time he saw a rock.

c.  Calling someone fat is more of an observation than an insult.  “Hey Jerry. Long time no see.  You look fat.  How is your family?”  A conversation that I am unfortunately familiar with.

 

3.  He learned it at home

After six months of binging in America on red meat and processed carbohydrates that have been deep fried in lard, soaked in syrup and coated in sugar we are beginning to feel a bit portly ourselves.  I believe the word we use at home is the word in question.  Fat.  I also believe that the tone in which we use the “F” word (albeit first person and not third) is the exact same tone that our son chose to use at Costco.  Surprise and volume.

“I AM SO FAT!!”

 

4.  Surely our kid is not the only one

Am I right?  Surely I’m right.  Please tell me I’m right?

 

I wish I could say that this story ends well.

As our bodies returned to their natural state we had the talk with our son.  It was the standard talk, trying to explain to a four year old why people don’t like to be called fat, especially when it is screamed loudly in the middle of a crowded Costco.  He assured us that he understood.

Moments later (as if on cue) a woman (of an even portlier persuasion) was heading our direction.  Our innards pre-shriveled.  Our pituitary glands braced themselves for impact.  We both looked at him and said . . . “DON’T SAY IT.”

He assured us that all was ok so we breathed a misguided sigh of relief just as she walked by  —  and he said with no surprise, but still great volume . . .

“IF YOU’RE FAT IT IS OKAY!!” 

Baby steps.

____________________________

For more awkward moments try these:

“Hey Fatty” and other Chinese Greetings

After five weeks in America it was good to see our friends in China.  Until they called me fat.

Last week I was walking home and ran into Lotus.  She’s our friend who runs the vegetable shop in our apartment complex.  She’s also the one who said my son (who is half African-American) looks better when he’s white (click here) and organized a community event to help me find a cure for my diarrhea (click here).  Lotus is genuinely one of the hardest working and sweetest people I have ever met.  From early morning to mid evening, seven days a week, she spends her time organizing her little shop and delivering fresh oranges and broccoli to families in the more than 20 buildings in our complex (who are too busy or too cold to walk to her well organized little shop).  Always with a smile, usually with a laugh and generally with a bit of free fruit if there are children involved.

Ironically, when I saw her she was coming from our apartment.  She had dropped off our oranges and broccoli and my wife had given her the small gift that she had thought to buy for her little boy in the States.  Her smile was bigger than usual and she stopped her bike to chat.  

“Ohhh Jerry, it’s so good to see you.  Welcome to come home!”

Me, “Hey Lotus! Good to see you too.  We’ve missed you.”

“Yes, I just go to see your wife. I’m so thankful for your gift.”

I wasn’t actually aware that we had given her a gift but obviously we had since she had it in her hand even though I couldn’t make out what it was.  “mmm. Oh yeah . . . we’re happy to give you that ummm . . . so how are you? Did you have a good Spring Festival?

“Oh yes, it was very good.  How about America?”

“Very good.  We had a wonderful time.”

“Good! I’m so happy to see you. And I’m so happy for the gift.  My son will love it!”

Again with the gift that I was still clueless about.  “Ohhh gooood  . . . all little boys need one . . . of those . . . things . . . that we got for him . . . Ok see you later.”

“Ok see you! You look a little fat!”

Caught off guard for the second time in a 20 second conversation I stumbled around in my brain for something to say.  I gave an awkward laugh and said the only thing I could think of  . . . “Yeah well I’ve been in America.  Zai Jian.”

“Zai Jian”

As I walked away I realized that I had just fed the Chinese stereotype that all Americans are fat which is obviously not true.  That’s like saying all Chinese people have black hair.  Oh.  Wait.

I’m afraid that I may have contributed to the gross misconception that there is something in American oxygen that immediately causes people to reproduce fat cells or even worse that Americans shovel food into their faces, like barnyard animals, straight from a feed trough.  I could imagine that she had a mental picture of restaurants with multiple tables the length of the room overflowing with every conceivable fattening food sopped in butter and gravy with massive Americans piling plate after plate full showing little or no restraint.  I felt it was too late to run after her and scream, “Noooo, you’re only thinking of a midwestern Chinese buffet!”  I also thought it might be a weak argument to tell her we have other restaurants . . . with steak . . . the size of my torso.”

China has much less of a weight problem than most Western countries and consequently less of a stigma.  No one wants to be fat but it doesn’t seem to be socially obsessed over from Kindergarten on here.  In the West we build a massive, albeit contradictory, piece of our culture around fatness.  Greasy fast food and high intensity workouts are both equally marketable products and feed off of each other (no pun intended).  “Here . . . eat this.  Now do a supercrunch.  That’ll be fifty dollars.”

We publicly label being overweight as the absolute worst possible state of being.  We make jokes about it (your Momma’s so fat).  We make movies about it (Shallow Hal and most Eddie Murphy movies) where the moral of the story is always, “it matters what’s on the inside” but the first 98% of the story is fat jokes, (or fat momma jokes).  We laugh about it.  We complain about it. We even acknowledge that its a problem (Supersize Me) BUT time itself comes to a screeching halt when it gets personal.  Children, in an effort to be cruel write poems (fatty, fatty boombaladdy) but once you reach the 6th grade you should know that it is physically dangerous to draw attention to anyone’s heavy-setedness, big-bonedness or even their pleasingly plumpedness.  And by the time your married you should know that the only acceptable response to, “do these jeans make me look fat?” is to fake a heart attack.

In China they just call you fat.  It’s not an insult.  It’s not a compliment.  It’s a statement.  However, we don’t generally hear what people say until we filter it through who we are.  China can be a challenge for the Westerner whose greatest, unspoken pain is being bigger than they want to be and I’ve heard some shocking stories from people who have come face to face with a perceived blunt response to their weight (which I dare not post on the internet without permission).  If you live in China and you’re big, you’re different than the norm and they’ll tell you.  If you live in America and you’re big, you’re not quite so different and no one will ever say a word . . . until you leave the room . . . and then they’ll make a fat joke.

So which way is better?  To say “you’re fat” and think nothing of it OR to not say, “you’re fat” and think, “fatty, fatty boombaladdy”?  I personally prefer the second one (especially when I’m the boombaladdy) but that could be because I’m an American . . . and pleasingly plump.

Anyone got a fat in China story that your not afraid to post on the internet?  Go for it.     

 

Better Than Chocolate: One of the Sweetest Perks of Having Lived Abroad

Choco EmmyI asked my son an unfair question that could have gone horribly in the wrong direction.  

It was one of those questions that, as it came out of my mouth, I thought, “nope . . . I should not be asking a four year old this”.  I braced for an awkward moment and had zero intention of ever sharing his answer with anyone in the world had he gotten it wrong.  Some people might say, “sheesh, the kid is four . . . there are no wrong answers.”  Those people are dumb.  For this question there was definitely a clear cut, absolute right answer and an undisputed (please don’t say it) terribly wrong answer.

click here for more awkward 4 year old moments:  “Hey Fatty and Other Things You Hope Your Kid’s Never Say in Public”

Here’s the back story — Emmy was family when we lived in China.  She ate at our apartment at least once a week for the better part of three years.  She connected with our family in a special way that happens when people are living as foreigners on the opposite side of the planet from the people they call family and the places they call home.  She could trust us and we could trust her . . . with anything.  She poured into our kids and saying goodbye a year ago was tough.

So . . . seeing her again was wonderful.  We happened to be close enough to the same spot on the map to make it worth the trip to spend a day together.  Here’s the best part.  That spot was Hershey, Pennsylvania . . . where chocolate comes from.  It’s a real live chocolatey wonderland with roller coasters, carousels, cotton candy and college students dressed up like Resee’s peanut butter cups.

It’s like Disney Land . . . dipped in chocolate.

So what kind of parent would ever ask a four year old to compare that to a living breathing soul.

This kind of parent.

Without an ounce of forethought, as we were moments away from our reunion I asked my son, “which is better, seeing Emmy or going to Hershey?”

Totally unfair question.

Without skipping a beat he nailed it . . . “Seeing Emmy.”

ReunionIn the last month we have gotten to see more than a dozen friends that we have only known as fellow foreigners in China.  It’s a little surreal because we’re seeing a slightly different version of them.  The people we knew never drove cars, drank draught root beer or ate cheeseburgers the size of your face but seeing them again and catching up has been incredible.

There is something really sweet about seeing our friends from over there . . . over here.

No question  . . . saying goodbye . . . so very much and so very often . . . is the hardest part of living abroad.

BUT my son said it best (and I paraphrase) — “Saying hello again is better than chocolate.”

To all of our friends that we have seen recently — it has been so good.

To our friends that we haven’t seen again just yet — we’ll meet you in Hershey.

Miss Janet

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Eight Most Ironic Things I Miss About China

Uh.  The people.  Duh.

That’s the only respectable answer to the question most often asked of people who have recently moved across the planet . . . “What do you miss the most?”  It has now been five months since my family and I relocated our lives from China back to the U.S. and just as I expected, I am missing the people like crazy.  Also no surprise is number two . . . the food.

The crazy bit is the number of things that I’m finding myself missing that I never dreamed I would.

 

Here’s my short list of the most ironic things I miss about China:

 

1. Stinky Toilets

This never would have made my list had a friend of mine and China expat veteran not blown my mind and saved my bacon at the same time.  I challenged a group of expats once to find the good and the bad of every part of their transition.  Confident I could pull off this discussion I threw out the bait, “What was the worst part of your first year in China?”  Without skipping a beat the voice came from the back, “SQUATTY POTTIES”.  The whole group groaned in agreement (no pun intended).

Internally I was sure that my theory was busted but I was too far in to turn back.  “Ok can anyone think of anything good about squatting your fully exposed posterior over a foul smelling, nasty, stank infested, porcelain hole in the ground?”

“Anyone?”

“Anyone?”

The awkwardness was finally broken by my friend who said, “the worst toilets I ever smelled and the best people I ever met were in the Chinese countryside so now every time I smell a nasty toilet I am reminded of my time there.”

Brilliant.  I miss stinky toilets.

Here’s a post about that:  China’s Beautiful Countryside

 

2. Hoofing It

To be clear, when I was in China the one thing I missed more more than anything (except the people – duh) is driving a car.  I also complained daily about having to walk so far just to find a taxi (which I also complained about  because it reminded me that I didn’t have a car).  However, I’m realizing, now that I have a car to carry me everywhere, that my body and my mind are both missing my daily walks.  Long walks gave me a great chance to process my day, plan the next one and complain about the fact that I didn’t have a car.  They were also infinitely more healthy than sitting behind a steering wheel complaining about the fact that I never get to walk anywhere.

Never satisfied.

 

800px-Chinese_soldier_on_Tienanmen_Square3. Communism

I have spent a ridiculous amount of time writing and rewriting this paragraph because I’m confident that any way I explain it, it’s going to come out horribly wrong.  So I’m settling on short, sweet and trusting you, the reader and my fellow Americans (if you are), to understand that I have not switched allegiance to the Communist party nor am I the least bit unthankful for the freedoms of my beautiful American life.

However, a refreshing side note to Chinese Communism is that I have met very few Chinese people who both:

  1. Claim loudly to be living in the “Greatest Nation in the World”
  2. Complain incessantly about how horrible everything in their nation is

The opposite seems to be true around here.  Moving on.

 

Foreigners Can't Read This4. Illiteracy

I read Chinese at about the same level that my four year old reads English.  We both stumble around in virtual  darkness and jump for joy when something makes sense.  It’s bonding really.  Although it is nice to be able to read again, ten minutes in front of the tabloids at the grocery store makes me miss the golden days of blissful illiteracy.

 

 

5. Faking Chinese

For seven years the most consistent challenge of my daily existence has been saying words.  It has become a very normal cycle of my everyday routine to

  1. Need to communicate a thought
  2. Realize I cannot
  3. Learn a new word
  4. Try to use it
  5. Receive a blank stare
  6. Try again
  7. Act it out using hand gestures and props from around the room
  8. Give up.

My Chinese is still pretty shaky but my mime skills have gotten crazy good.

99% of the time it has been something super simple like “do you carry flourescent light bulbs ?” or “please don’t put ketchup on my Egg Mcmuffin”.  It’s the 1% times like, “my son is having a seizure, please do something” that have left the most lasting impact.  Some combination of learning Chinese and learning how to fake it have helped me make it through the past seven years one awkward mistake at a time.

And I’ll be doggone’d if I don’t miss it every single day.

Check out some of my favorite posts about faking Chinese

 

6.  Being Stared At

Strange I know.  Doesn’t make a bit of sense to me either but after a while you kind of get used to being a walking confusion storm.  That’s what my family is in China.  We don’t make sense no matter how you look at us.  Two white foreigners with a Chinese daughter (who speaks remarkable English) and a black son who has just recently become a ninja.  Yeah.  We’re confusing.  So people stare (and sometimes take pictures) because it is perfectly, culturally acceptable to stare at weird things in China.  Given the fact that we were taught that it is absolutely unacceptable and terribly rude to stare at weird things (until you know for sure that they are not looking at you), it can be one of the frustrating bits of cultural adjustment.

And still . . . I miss it.

 

7.  Taking Taxis

Great conversation.  Deep cultural insight.  All the cigarettes he can smoke.  Near death thrill rides.  What’s not to miss?

 

8.  Being a Foreigner

There is something profound and humbling about experiencing life as a bumbling outsider.  Tripping over culture every single day.  Miscommunicating every word and every thought.  Wondering what people think when they look at you.  Getting cut in line by tiny elderly women.  Being told you’re too fat or too old or too black or your baby is too cold or too hot or too diapered.  Daily feeling smugly pompous about how much righter you are than them and then wondering if you’ve ever been right about anything.

It all blends.  It ain’t always pretty.  In fact it’s often quite messy.

But dang I miss it.

Ironic huh?

How about you?  Expats?  Repats?  What are you missing that you never thought you would? 

On Rape and Racial Profiling in China

An expat in Beijing was beaten unconscious and left laying in
the street last week after sexually assaulting a young Chinese woman.

Warning – This post is not a funny one but stick with it to the end.  Sorry.  I’ll be extra funny later I promise.  Also, for those of you keeping track, if your kids read this blog you might want to steer them clear or better yet (if appropriate) talk to them about it.

“Did you hear the news?”  My Chinese friend (who requested I not use her name) asked me as we were crossing the street last week.
“What news?”
“About the England man in Beijing.  He tried to make sex with the woman right on the street.  Can you believe such a thing?”
My initial mental picture was way off but after a few questions I realized that we weren’t talking about a couple of drunk college students busted for public indecency.  It was one drunk expat who sexually assaulted a Chinese girl and was nearly beaten to death by a group of furious Chinese men.  The entire thing was caught on video and posted to youku (kind of like Chinese youtube) and instantly went viral.  Two days (and 3 million hits) later it sparked an outrage against foreigners living in Beijing.  The man has been detained and is facing 3 to 10 years in Chinese prison.
This story makes me shake on the inside.  It’s like a tornado of intensely personal issues for me.  Just to mention a couple . . . racial profiling . . . and rape.
It seems easier to start with racial profiling.
Let me start by saying how blatantly aware I am that this is a loaded issue.  There’s no safe way around it.  Understood.  Challenge accepted.  Here we go.
These are a few of the thoughts rolling through my head in the wake of this story:
1.  I’m a Racial Profiler
I do it all the time . . . I catch myself . . . I kick myself.
Then I do it again.
I make snap judgements based on my largest pool of understanding about any one group of people.  It’s not always negative.  It’s rarely (but not never) hateful and you would be hard pressed to convict me on charges of premeditated racism but I can’t shake it.
When I see you I automatically build a story about you in my head based on my experience with other people who look like you.
When I hear you speak I do it again.
Sorry.
2.  So is everyone else (except for you)
I won’t waste my time here trying to convince you that you share my affliction.  But have you noticed everyone else?  Yeah, they do it for sure.  Especially Canadians.  (that’s a joke Canada – just because I know you can take it).
I’m not even convinced it’s humanly possible to not do it.  It doesn’t mean you instinctively tag people as gangsters or terrorists or thieves but you’ve got them tagged as something the moment you see them.
3.  Pronouns are significant.
We. Us. Them. They.
Hold that thought.
4.  Racial profiling is fueled by ignorance.
Feel like making someone mad?  Call them a racist.  Want to get your face punched off?  Call them ignorant.
There’s not a nice way to call someone ignorant but by definition ignorance is simply not knowing.  Profiling is an assumption based on the piece of the story that I don’t have.  The less I know about a person (i.e. the more ignorant I am) the more I need to assume.
Granted, I fill in the gaps based on what information I DO have (even if it is next to nothing or 500% wrong) but the more I know the less I need to make up in my head.
5.  Number (grammatically speaking) is significant.  
When I profile someone singular and plural become indistinguishable.
Personality is lost in the profile.  Individuality, temperament, disposition and character are snubbed for the sake of the assumption.  Simultaneously, all of the perceived characteristics of the plural group are shoveled  onto the singular individual.
6.  Pronouns get bigger when people do bad things
“WE” can be extremely proud of “OUR” inclusivity until “THEY” attack “US”.
Then the lines become less blurry.
Fair enough in some cases but combine this with #4 and innocent people get hurt.
A Ball State University study showed that people who were perceived to be Middle Eastern were as much at risk of retaliatory violence as those who actually were following the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center.  South Asians were especially at risk and one Indian man in Arizona was shot and killed just for being a Muslim.
He was a Sikh.
In a broken moment “WE” lumped “THEM” together.  Not all of “US” pulled the trigger or threw a punch or shouted obscenities . . . but some of “US” still tense up when “WE” see “THEM” wearing a turban on an airplane.
Then “WE” kick “OURSELVES”.
Then “WE” do it again.
7.  Every profiler should feel the sting of being profiled 
Living as a foreigner in China, I get profiled a lot (click here and here and here for more about that).
It’s not the bad kind though.   I’ve been called a “foreign devil” but very rarely and never to my face.  In six years of living in China not a single person has told me to speak Chinese or go home.  I have never been arrested because I look like a criminal and I have yet to be shot and killed for being Jewish (even though I am a Christian).  Usually it’s just people sizing me up based on what they know about other people who look like me.
I’m doing the same thing to them so I can’t complain.
Sometimes I still do.
This week it seems different though.  The pronouns feel bigger because “WE” attacked “THEM”.  I know, I know, the guy was a British foreigner and not an American foreigner and his actions are as deplorable to me as they are to the men who dropped him to the pavement but I think foreigners are foreigners this week.  I can’t help but think that I probably look a lot more British than the Sikh looked Muslim.
PLEASE DON’T READ THIS WRONG — I don’t feel a threat or like expats in China are in any kind of danger.
There is NO code red here or even orange.
In fact, with the exception of three rude taxi drivers nearly every Chinese person I have seen this week has been perfectly polite and gracious as always.  But I know for a fact that foreigners lost respect last week.
All of us.  My friend told me so.
So I’m wondering – what do they think when they see me? Do the women tense up when I walk past them? Do the men secretly want to punch my face off?
I also saw the video.  I saw the absolute rage in the man who kept coming back to stomp on the foreigner.
And I felt it.  Not the stomps.  The rage.
Which brings us to point number two.
There was a period of about six months in my life that I couldn’t even bring myself to think the word, let alone say it.  It was a combination of a defense mechanism and my own cowardice.  Saying it would mean that it actually happened.  All of it.  I could say “attacked and beaten.”  I could even say “sexually assaulted.”  But I couldn’t say the word.
To this day there is no more repulsive word in my vocabulary.  It’s foul.  Revolting.  Nauseating and it makes me shake on the inside.  I freaking hate it.
Rape.
There.  I said it.  But I don’t feel any better.
He shared my skin color.  He was about my age.  He was middle class, like me.
In the context of this week, there is a part of me that is glad he wasn’t Chinese.  Or African.  Or Middle Eastern.  Not because that would have been even the slightest bit more horrible but because I’m a profiler.  If it would have been one of “THEM” then (somewhere in my mind) it would have become all of “THEM”, whoever “THEY” are and I really don’t want to live my life blaming the plural for the sin of the singular.  It wasn’t though.  It was one of “US”.  So I don’t have the luxury of blaming it on race.  I can’t say, “It was a dirty (insert racial slur) that . . . ” I’m forced to consider the fact that it was the condition of his heart and not the color of his skin that drove him to rape my wife.
He’s in prison for 45 years.  And I’m glad.
But for China it wasn’t one of “THEM”.  It was one of “US”.
This is a quote from a Chinese man commenting on the crime.  I tried to read it out loud to my friend today but I cried in the middle of it:
“Damn foreigner. You’d think it was 100 years ago when the foreigners came to China and did as they pleased.”
Another man said, “How dare he be so arrogant in our land.”
I’m going to practice profiling now just to see how it feels.  

Dear China – I’m am sorry, embarrassed and outraged that it was us who attacked your young woman.  You were right to protect her and frankly I’m glad that you beat us senseless and left us laying in the street.  

We had it coming.  

Even though we have confused you, insulted you and infuriated you, thank you for not making it entirely plural.  Thank you for not rioting against “US”, burning down “OUR” homes, threatening “OUR” lives or lynching “US”.  You have been a gracious host and we slapped you in the face this week.

Your house.  Your rules.  

We have earned your justice and your prison.

It doesn’t feel good.
_____
Important sidenotes:  
1.  If this hits home.  Share it.  Facebook it.  Tweet it. Pin it.  Whatever you do.  Do your little thing.
2.  If you know us personally and this is new to you please know that you don’t have to tiptoe around my wife.  It’s not new to her.  She is a brilliant, strong and amazing woman who is most often an open book on the issue and would honestly rather talk about it than wonder if you read this blog and want to say something but won’t.  She also knows that she’s not alone and aches deeply alongside the millions of women who share her story with varying, horrible details.
Talking is good.
And if she doesn’t feel like talking about it at the moment or you say something legitimately stupid  (or just ignorant)-  she’s an open book about that too.