Culture | The Culture Blend

Let’s Talk About the Dolphin in the Room

Jun 21, 2012 | 1 comment

“I’m thinking about buying an elephant.”

That’s what I said to Flight (our Chinese assistant) just because I knew it would be a fun conversation.

“Hmm. Why do you want to buy an elephant?”

sidenote – That response was a landmark moment in our relationship. Her typical response to me is the now famous, “Whaaaaat?” which is her knee jerk, “I’m not quite sure I understand how you foreigners think” reaction (read, “That Stink is Awesome” for more about “Whaaaat”). Honestly (just between you and me) that’s what I was going for. But the “Whaaaat’s” are harder to come by these days. She has reached the point of unshockability and complete immunity to goofy overstatement and bad Foreigner jokes. New level.

So that’s all I got.

No “Whaaat? Where will you put an elephant? How will you feed an elephant? Can you really afford an elephant?”

Just “Hmm. Why do you want to buy an elephant?”

I confessed that I didn’t want to buy a real elephant and I could see by her face that she was thinking the sarcastic Chinese equivalent of, “Really? Cause I thought you might be serious?”

I explained, “We have a saying in English, ‘Let’s talk about the elephant in the room'”

She was at least curious, “What’s this mean?”

I continued, “We use it when there is a problem that everyone knows about but no one wants to talk about.”

I told her I wanted to buy a giant, inflatable elephant for a prop when I’m speaking to companies about ignoring the cross-cultural problems that they have. She didn’t know the word inflatable so I had to pretend like I was blowing up an elephant but that’s pretty typical (acting out words, not pretending to blow up elephants . . . first time for that).

“Ohhh yeah. They sell those here.” She pointed back at the Supermarket that we had just walked out of.

Totally got me. I said, “Whaaat?”

“Yeah, they sell those here. Upstairs.”

I was so confused and so certain she wasn’t understanding me. “The blow up kind?! (again acting it out)”

“Yes, with the toys. . . only they are dolphins . . . will that work?”

Laughing, “No, you can’t say ‘I want to talk about the dolphin in the room.’ It has to be an elephant.”

sidenote: I flashed back to the last time I had her buy two rubber ducks so I could illustrate “paradox.” Get it? Pair of ducks . . . Pair-a-ducks . . . Par-a-dox . . . it’s better when you have rubber ducks in your hand. She found the ducks but she called me on the phone, extremely excited because she had also found rubber chickens for half the price of the ducks . . . “will that work?”

“Parachickens” . . . not the same.

“Why can’t you say you want to talk about the dolphin in the room?”

“Because, that’s the whole point of the saying. It’s like there is big elephant in the room. Everyone sees it but no one is talking about it. It’s impossible to not know it’s there but still we choose to ignore it.”

“If there’s a dolphin in the room you should talk about it.”

She had a fair point. “That’s true but the saying means there is a BIG problem . . . huge . . . enormous . . . like an elephant.”

Lights coming on. “Ohhh. So it could be a whale?”

“NO! It must be an elephant because that is the saying. Let’s talk about the ELEPHANT in the room. Not the whale. Not the dolphin. Not the chicken. The ELEPHANT!”

She was laughing hard enough for me to realize that not only had she (after two years of working for foreigners) become completely impervious to my attempts to set her up for confusingly hilarious conversations by using ridiculous, culturally unclear statements . . . she had disarmed me . . . and slapped me with my own weapon.

Touche Flight. You make me proud.

And you’re fired.

What Crocodile Dundee Taught Me About Culture Shock

May 31, 2012 | 2 comments

Let me just make this clear. I am secure enough in my masculinity to write a post about learning from Lorelai Gilmore. So following it (almost immediately) with a post about what I learned from Crocodile Dundee is in no way an overcompensation for that. The same goes for my next three posts, “What I Learned About Culture Shock from Clint Eastwood, John Wayne and Chuck Norris”. I’m glad we cleared that up.

America . . . Australia. Same place right?

I know, I know, Australians wrestle alligators, go on walkabouts through the Outback and cook shrimp on the barbie. Americans have never heard of Vegemite . . . or soccer . . . or Europe and our football players are such pansies they have to wrap themselves in kevlar body armor.

Minor differences.

But deep down, we’re the same right? Same economy, same values, same language just with a funny accent (not saying which side that is). That’s what made Crocodile Dundee such a beautiful picture of crossing cultures. He was the same basic hero that Americans had grown to love only with different accessories and a different tag-line. His “Go ahead make my day” was “That’s not a knife . . .” Tough, gritty, smirky, confidence that stares death in the eye and says something horribly corny . . . and awesome. Just like we like where I come from.

Almost the same. But different.

One of my best mates (that means friend in Australian) is Australian. One time he thought it would be fun to teach me how to play cricket. Only it wasn’t just him it was another Australian and it wasn’t just me it was nine other Americans.

It was terrible.

Not because it wasn’t fun. We had a blast. We set up on a tennis court (because there aren’t a lot of cricket fields in China) and lined up for our lesson. They explained the rules in perfect English and walked us through like we were second graders learning to play chess. They were flawless teachers. Do you know what we learned?

We learned that Americans can’t play cricket.

Not because we don’t get it. We understood the rules perfectly but we literally, physically could not force our bodies to play. I don’t mean we weren’t very good. There was no way of knowing how good we were because we were NOT PLAYING CRICKET. I don’t know what we were playing but it was NOT CRICKET. The Australians were ripping their hair out because the Americans, for the life of them, simply cannot play cricket. Know why?

Because we couldn’t stop playing baseball.

There was something deeply embedded in our core that impulsively forced us to swing for the fence every time (which is not the point of cricket). If you put a bat in our hands and throw a ball at us we have to swing as hard as we can. If you put a ball in our hands and tell us to bowl . . . we pitch (or we laugh because the bowling ball is so small and there are only three pins). We throw sliders and curves and fastballs. Really fastballs. As fast as we can because that’s how we did it on the sandlot, or in the cow pasture or (when we were lucky) on the diamond, but we are incapable of bouncing the ball before it gets to the batter and we DO NOT keep our elbow straight.

Who pitches like that?

Here’s what I learned about culture shock. Sometimes it can be more of a challenge when things are almost the same . . . but different. The shock is not as intense or initially painful but it’s the intense, painful parts that you generally force yourself to adjust to. The bigger problem comes when the differences are subtle . . . when it feels the same . . . looks the same . . . but is still fundamentally different. That’s when the shock (low voltage as it is) drags on for a very long time.

I see (and feel) this a lot in China. Simply because China is becoming so Western it feels . . . well . . . Western. It looks Western, feels Western, tastes Western and is even beginning to smell Western. But it’s still not Western.

It’s cricket.

What Lorelai Gilmore Taught Me About Culture Shock

May 31, 2012 | 2 comments

Culture shock is so cliche.

It’s a buzz word that is tossed around by all who travel but rarely understood. I know because I don’t understand it either. I’ve seen the charts and the diagrams with the highs and lows, the big dip around six months and the slow climb that levels out around 12 to 15 months when you have fully adjusted to your new culture and everything is fine. I even use these regularly to explain the mess that people are going to experience when the honeymoon of high culture China fades. It’s a nice illustration and it makes a valid point that sometimes you’re up and sometimes your down. But that really doesn’t cut it.

It’s deeper than that.

More consuming.

More personal.

Maybe that’s the kicker. Culture shock is inherently personal. It is inevitable and carries some universal characteristics but when you really get down to it everyone’s chart looks dramatically different.

I knew I was at the bottom of the dip when the sixth season of Gilmore Girls wasn’t playing right. We had spent the better part of the past two weeks watching the first five and a half seasons so stopping was not an option. The screen kept freezing but if I shook the DVD player it would play for about four seconds and then pause again. After watching a full episode in four second bursts I turned to my wife and said, “We need to get out of this apartment.”

We had done the classic – retreat, withdraw and create a familiar environment – instead of engaging China. We had been told that would happen but who could have guessed that Lorelai Gilmore would be our refuge.

I think the most profound part of my cultural adjustment has also been the most difficult. It wasn’t the dip (at least not the first one). My chart has at least two maybe three significant dips, each one a little more impacting than the last. Once I got through the, “this place is hard, stop staring at me” phase I was confronted with a culture much more challenging than China’s.

My own.

When I started trying to see myself through they eyes of the people around me I realized just how Western, how American, how Central Illinoisan I really am. It forced me to question which parts of me are core and unshakable and which parts are simply a product of my environment and my upbringing.

That hurts.

When pieces that have been a part of me since day one were challenged it was unpleasant. The result, however is refining. I am finding that my core values are not destroyed but strengthened when all of the fluff falls away (or is ripped out). The high side of culture shock is seeing yourself the way you are seen and as painful as that is, I think it makes you better.

I’ll tell you for sure when I get to the top of the dip.

On Rape and Racial Profiling in China

May 23, 2012 | 5 comments

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.

The Potty Perspective

May 10, 2012 | 3 comments

My American friend (who was living in China at the time) freaked out when she thought for a moment that her baby was missing. She was only slightly less alarmed when she realized that she was mistaken. Instead, an elderly Chinese woman had removed her 18 month olds diaper and was squatting her over a garbage bin blowing in her ear.

I don’t know the exact words that my friend said to the woman but I feel I can say with some assurance that it was not:

“Thank you, kind elderly woman for squeezing my naked child over this dreadful bucket of rubbish and rotting fish meat while blowing in her ear. Your actions are fully comprehended and much appreciated. Here, please accept this cash reward as a token of my heart felt appreciation.”

When you’re a foreigner living in China perspective can be pretty significant. So when you look at one thing and see something completely different than the 1.5 billion people around you it can throw you off and the results often range from hilarious to horrifying and back again.

Potty training is all about perspective.

If you’ve been in China at all you’ve seen them. Adorable babies from infant to toddler with their little tushies sticking out of pants that have been strategically designed for “free flow” and instant access. The immediate reaction from most Western onlookers is some combination of eye widening shock, slight embarrassment, intrigue and laughter followed by a curious need for a sensible explanation. That’s when the discovery phase begins and the most dangerous pronouns in cross cultural understanding are introduced . . .

“THEM” and “THEY”

“Oh yeah . . . that’s how THEY do it.”

“THEY” don’t use diapers. “THEY” just let “THEM” go anywhere. “THEY” put “THEM” in split pants so “THEY” can squat “THEM” wherever “THEY” are.

The problem with “THEY” and “THEM” is not that they are inaccurate words. Our entire assessment (about “THEM”) may be absolutely, 100%, spot on BUT once they become “THEY” then “THEY” are not “US” and our understanding of “THEM” will always come from the perspective of an outsider looking in. “WE” become spectators, trying to make sense of “THEM” (and the crazy things that “THEY” do) because frankly, “THEY” don’t make sense. Fortunately, “WE” are smart so “WE” realize that “THEY” are not “US” and it would be unfair of “US” to expect “THEM to act normally (like “US”). That explains “THEM”.

The traditional Chinese style of toilet training is generally and easily dismissed by Western visitors as a little strange . . . maybe funny . . . sometimes a bit disgusting (especially when you step in it) and to a select few . . . horrifying . . . but just the way “THEY” do it. And that’s good enough for “US”. Our curiosity is satisfied more by the simple fact that “THEY” are “THEM” and not “US” than it is by seeking any sort of genuine understanding. So quite frankly, the way “THEY” let “THEIR” kids go doodie on the sidewalk . . . it ain’t right.

HOWEVER . . .

It is also being embraced by a growing segment of the Western population who grasp the tremendous benefits open crotch trousers. It has fancy names like “Elimination Communication” or “Natural Infant Hygeine” and it encompasses all of the fundamental building blocks that make parenting trends go viral:

Encourages intimacy between a mother and child
Improves early childhood communication skills
Reduces health risks
Children are trained earlier
Saves money (as a parent of a child who has just finished with diapers I’m shouting “amen!” to this one)
Better for the environment (no disposable diapers which take over a million years to decompose)
Accompanied by lines of overpriced products and accessories

Ironically. Diapers are trending in China.

In my opinion, the most intriguing part of this entire phenomenon has nothing to do with how we train our children to direct their waste into the appropriate location. I think the perspective on our perspective is far more fascinating. When “THEY” do something, it is strange, funny, weird and gross. When “WE” adopt the exact same practice, it is rational, brilliant, healthy and green (like environmentally green – not what you were thinking).

Just for fun, consider it from the perspective of the elderly Chinese woman. Here is this tiny, unfortunate, pasty white foreign child crawling around in the park with some type of stifling, insulated, blanket velcroed to her bottom, completely prohibiting her from answering natures call. At best, this poor child is carrying around a load of her own mess and at worst she is horribly constipated because everyone knows that if babies don’t have the split pants they just won’t go. What’s a concerned grandmother to do? She had to help.

I know, I know. That doesn’t explain the incredibly inappropriate invasion of personal space or the uninvited, hostile take over of parental responsibilities but hey, she’s old and Chinese . . . and that’s just how “THEY” do things.

Watermelon, Brad Pitt and Some of My Other Chinese Friends

Apr 22, 2012 | 8 comments

photo note: this is not the real Spiderman from my daughter’s Kindergarten class. This is just an imposter I met near our home.

My daughter went to Kindergarten with Spiderman. He was shorter than he looks in the movies.

Something interesting happens when our Chinese friends get an English name. It’s pretty standard practice, considering most Chinese students start learning English when they are in primary school (my French name in high school was Gustave). Sometimes they have the luxury of a foreigner who chooses a name for them (such as our employee . . . Brad Pitt). Other times it seems like more of a random English crapshoot. Like they just shook the dictionary and took whatever fell out first. China is filled with aspiring English speakers named Apple or Tree or House or Wing or Watermelon or Superman or Wonder Woman. Just kidding . . . I’ve never met Wonder Woman but the rest are friends of mine.

The cockiest Chinese teenager I ever met was Tiramisu. I was testing his English level for placement in a program that would help him get a visa to study in Canada. I looked at my clipboard and started the interview, “So . . . you’re name is Tiramisu?” He squinted at me, slouched down in his chair and thumbed his nose like he was Bruce Lee. “Call me Tira.”

I really tried not to laugh but I think I snorted just a little bit (like when you’re trying to hold it in and can’t). “No . . . no I think I want to call you Tiramisu.”

Like all things lost in translation it can be good for a chuckle. In fairness, however, the goofy name shoe fits on the other foot as well.

My first Chinese name was You Wang. Those of you who live or have lived in China probably pronounced this correctly in your head and for that I would like to say, “thank you.” You realize that this is pinyin (Chinese phonetics) and not English. Those of you who don’t and just made an off color joke in your head . . . shame on you. The correct pronunciation sounds a little more like Yo (as in “yo whassup?”) and Wong (as in rhymes with “strong” or “Cheech and Chong” or “ching chang willy willy bing bang bong“). It means, “to have hope” and considering Chinese names are chosen for their meaning I thought it was a good one for me . . . but Chinese people kept laughing at me.

No kidding, for three years every time I introduced myself, Chinese people would say, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You Wang.”

And they would laugh.

“What?! Why are you laughing? It means, ‘to have hope’, why is that funny?” And without fail the response was always the same.

“No, no,” biting their lips and raising their eyebrows at each other, “it’s a good name,” *nose snort* . . . “good name.”

I was convinced that my first year Chinese teacher had given me a name that secretly meant “Shoestring” or “Monkey King” or “Tiramisu” so I finally cornered some friends and forced them to tell me why it was so funny. I discovered that it was a legitimate Chinese name but it sounded like an old man from the countryside. I’m pretty sure my Chinese name meant “Delbert Bob.”

So I changed it . . . with help . . . to Jie Rui. Which sounds exactly like “Jerry”. Boring but at least they don’t snort anymore.

Your name is your brand. Our Executive Assistant “Flight” has known for a long time that her English name is not exactly mainstream. She’s mentioned several times that she would like a new name and one day we even agreed on “Sonya” which sounds like her Chinese name. That was the last time I called her Sonya. She’s Flight. She’s been Flight since Jr. High English class and once people get past the introductions they realize that she’s amazing. She transcends the awkwardness of an unconventional name and no one gives it a second thought . . . until a rookie foreigner comes along and snorts through his nose.

Seriously though, we Westerners lose chuckling rights every time we download a song from Pink or Seal or Prince or Sting or Eminem or Meatloaf (really? Meatloaf?). Suddenly Tiramisu seems so much less snort worthy.

But still funny.