I know because that’s what is on my business cards — which are outdated — and in a suitcase — on a ship — somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.
Feels like a metaphor for my life right now.
My role is to know things.
Important things like how to move from one country to another without finding yourself curled up in the fetal position, sucking your thumb on your bedroom floor six months in.
I’ve got a whole seminar for that.
Just kidding. That’s not a real seminar.
Yet.
But let’s just call it professional development that in the middle of a global pandemic I chose to uproot my family from a 14-year life in China to a European island . . . somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.
Here’s the thing . . . Transition strips you bare.
It leaves you raw.
It exposes your deepest insecurities.
Exploits your weakest vulnerabilities.
Challenges your firmest principles.
Mocks your best ideas.
And it pokes your confidence right on the forehead with two fingers and says, “Alright tough guy. What do ya’ got now?”
I know. Because I’m a Transition Specialist . . . in transition.
I’m feeling it . . . in my core.
And yet, in all of the chaos, confusion, and mayhem of rearranging your entire, cushy system for getting life accomplished while upending your sense of community and knee-capping your structures of support — in all of the isolation, and frustration, and irritation, and second-guessing . . .
IF YOU ARE WILLING TO PAY ATTENTION . . .
There is NO BETTER PLACE to learn . . . and if you’re not careful, you might just learn something about yourself.
Here’s what I’m learning this time around
Knowing is ONLY half the battle
Sorry, G.I. Joe. I know you meant well but winning half a battle is kind of like jumping halfway over a pit of crocodiles.
Knowing about transition is critical. So important. It helps and it’s why I do what I do.
It’s reassuring to know I’m not going crazy.
It’s comforting to know I’m not alone.
It’s important to be equipped with strategies and tools.
But it’s not a free pass. Regardless of who you are or how much you know about the impact of transition, you don’t get to escape the pile of turds that comes with it.
Pardon my language. I’m a little raw.
Smooth does not mean easy
Full disclosure — I didn’t learn this one this time around. This transition has not been smooth. This transition started with canceled flights and snippy, Chinese airport personnel telling me I couldn’t use the flights that hadn’t been canceled. It was marked by delays and restrictions and days on hold with customer support and fantasizing that I could turn into the Incredible Hulk and throw buses at people.
That was just getting here.
But every transition is different.
I’ve had others that have gone off without a hitch — smooth rides from take-off to landing and instant, supportive community.
And it was still hard.
Go figure.
Rough does not mean bad
This transition has been the roughest — not unlike what I would imagine it might feel like to be strapped to a professional wrestler . . . and then rolled down a mountain . . . during an earthquake . . . while waiting for customer service to take me off of hold.
And still . . . we found golden minutes along the way. People bent over backwards to help us. We had extra outings and sweet moments of connection even in the middle of the ugliest melt-downs
And this one I love the most — I got to see the resilience and flexibility, that has been packed into my kids through all of the crazy changes they’ve been through, shine like diamonds.
None of this has been smooth — but some of it has been really, really good.
Pandemics are stupid
Anyone want to argue? Anyone?
I dare you.
How about you, key stockholders of the surgical mask or hand sanitizer companies?
I didn’t think so.
This is a mess. So if you’re brave (or crazy) enough to be taking on a global move right now (and I know I’m not the only one), just know that transition is hard on a good day. This one is compounded . . . complex . . . and NOT how it is supposed to go.
Be nice to yourself.
Talk shows aren’t funny without an audience
Am I right?
I mean, if Jimmy Kimmel tells a joke in the woods and no one laughs . . . is it still funny?
Turns out it’s not.
Here’s my point — when EVERYTHING around you changes in an instant you can’t pretend like it hasn’t and expect the same results — something has to give.
Figuring that out is called TRANSITION . . . and I’ve got a seminar for that.
For real. I’ll do that one if I get one taker.
But it won’t be free.
Loving something doesn’t always feel good
I love transition. I really do.
Still.
I love day one in a new country.
I love getting lost and finding my way back.
I love figuring out how the jumbled mess of puzzle pieces lock together, one by one, to reveal an incredible landscape that makes you want to frame it and hang it on the wall . . .
and start on the next puzzle.
Even more than that, I love walking with other people who are doing the same thing.
And sometimes . . . it hurts.
And it’s hard.
And it’s confusing.
And it’s lonely.
And you wonder if it was all just a big mistake.
So tell me one thing you’ve ever loved that hasn’t felt the same.
If you’re in the middle of global transition right now let me encourage you with these words:
ARE YOU INSANE?!! Don’t you know it’s 2020?!! What were you thinking?!!
Now soak it up. Don’t miss the good bits. Hang on tight and let’s get through this together.
How does a White father from the United States, raising his Black son in China talk about the news this week?
That’s not rhetorical.
It’s not hypothetical?
I’m asking. Because I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m not the only parent this week scrambling for the right answers with a frantic sense of panic and a haunting awareness that I CANNOT GET THIS WRONG.
It’s like I can physically see his heart forming right in front of my eyes and how I respond in this moment sets the trajectory for our futures. For me, that points to how I will someday feel about how I handled my responsibility as a parent.
For him, it could go much deeper.
So much deeper.
Wrong is not an option.
But I’ve got other options. Loads of them. Probably more than you.
I could ignore this. “We’re over here. That’s over there.”
I could gloss over it. “This has happened before. It’ll blow over.”
I could globalize it. “Every country has its issues. We don’t own the narrative on racism, abuse of power, or rioting in the streets.”
I could dilute it. “Look at all of the good things that are still going on in the world.”
I could deflect and deny. “That’s bad but . . .”
I could appease myself. “Hey son, let’s learn about Martin Luther King Jr.”
Then I could pat myself on the back and brag about it on Facebook.
Those are viable options and I’ve employed them all in the past. But there is a tipping point.
So I talked to my son.
As I shared the story of George Floyd I was second-guessing every word that came out of my mouth. I didn’t want to sugarcoat it or dismiss the gravity of it but I also didn’t want to transfer my bias into his brain. I was going for the “teachable moment” but I felt pathetically ill-equipped.
Spoiler alert. I got turned upside-down.
I watched him make his “wheels turning” face. I’ve seen it before. The connections between his brain and his heart overload which produce a moment of silent reflection.
Eventually, he spoke. “That’s horrible.”
I agreed and we chatted for a bit. He processed his hurt for George Floyd, his family, and all of the people who were angry. The anger made sense to him but then he threw me for a loop. He expressed his pain for Derek Chauvin, the police officer.
“Everybody must hate him.”
It wasn’t just an observation. He could feel it.
Every single parental synapse in my brain was firing at once. WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS? Crush his empathy? Deny his unbelievably insightful thought process? Harden his heart? Teach him about, “you can’t say that out loud”? Or encourage him and set him up for the future backlash?
I felt like I was spinning too many plates and they were all about to come crashing down.
He changed the subject — started talking about video games. It wasn’t a defense mechanism, he just says what’s in his mind — whatever that is. That has happened before too. I gave him the sex talk last summer and when I got to that part about “any questions?” he said, “yeah, how did saber tooth tigers not bite their own lips?”
I’ve learned to let him go where he goes and not force the issue.
After a few minutes, he said, “sometimes I just feel like nobody likes me.”
Ok, this one I can handle. Don’t convince him. Don’t minimize. Just listen and connect.
“I hear you buddy. Sometimes I feel like that too.”
“Yeah,” he said,
“But you’re not Black.”
Wow.
That hit.
Hard.
It was like being knocked by a reality wrecking ball into an ocean of clarity and it was the first moment in this conversation where I understood completely what my role was and what my strategy should be.
I AM NOT THE TEACHER HERE.
I’m the learner.
My son, who is ten years old, and biologically only 50% black, and only has two minutes worth of the story, and a fraction of the background, and is growing up with white parents and an Asian sister on the other side of the planet from where this is happening CAN CONNECT INSTANTLY in a way that I will NEVER be able to.
It is time for me to shut up — to stop pretending like I know something that I can’t possibly comprehend. I need to stop trying to cultivate his emotions and let him feel how he feels.
The anger.
The grief.
The empathy.
All of it.
It is not my role as his White parent to teach him what it feels like to be Black.
I need to listen.
It was a life lesson that seems relevant on a MUCH broader scale.
The “yeah but” formula
Days later I’m exhausted as I watch the memes roll through where people like me disclaim their hollow sympathy instantly with twisted statistics and words like, “however” and, “yeah but what about” and “oh yeah well one time I”.
It’s a language I am trained in and speak fluently. Acknowledge the point and then crush them with a true but missing-the-point-counterpoint. Say their thing first and then completely ignore it.
“It’s terrible that George Floyd was killed BUT that doesn’t make looting and violence justifiable.”
“It’s sad that he died BUT he was high and had a record.”
“The policeman was wrong BUT most police are good.”
“I understand being upset BUT you don’t see us protesting when White people get killed.”
“Of course Black lives matter BUT all lives matter.”
“Racism is horrible BUT I have Black friends.”
It’s a simple formula for learning nothing, never growing, never changing and never getting to the core of our own darkness. It amounts to defending our ignorance so we can convincepeople that we’re not when we should be confessing our ignorance so we can understand more.
The “yeah but” formula is strategically designed to diminish, distract and dismiss
Can I just confess here? I am ignorant.
I DON’T KNOW.
Not because I am stupid. I’m not.
And not because I don’t have information. I do.
In fact, if you compare me to my son I have more information, more backstory, more education, more understanding, more experience, and more capacity to process complex thoughts.
And yet when I asked for his permission to write this post he said,
“Yeah, of course, but dad, you can teach me about Black history, and you can teach me about White history,
but you can’t teach me how it feels to be Black.”
I have so much to learn from him.
I want to flip my own script. I mean in real life not just on a blog post. I want to open myself up to hear. To listen. To learn.
In the context of what is happening right now, and in an answer to “how am I supposed to raise my son,” it feels really important for me to make two clear resolutions:
To speak up.
I am AGAINST racism. Period.
To be clear, no one I know would ever say they are FOR racism, but there is a massive gap between not being for something and being against it.
And yet because of my skin, my heritage, my life-long political affiliations, my demographics, my culture AND because of things I have believed and even said in the past . . . if I choose NOT to plainly and unequivocally state that I am against racism without ANY disclaimers, it would be reasonable for anyone who knows me to assume that I land on a different side of this thing.
Maybe your side?
To let you think that you have an ally when you don’t is not fair to anyone.
If your visceral gut response to that is “I’m against racism too!! BUT . . .”
Then I’m not being clear yet.
No more “buts”.
Our disclaimers send a VERY clear message: WE ARE NOT LISTENING. And if we are “yeah butting”, we are NOT AGAINST racism. We are simply not for it. At least we would never admit it.
So if that’s you, and you have the courage to say “I might be wrong” then I would invite you to join me in my second resolution:
To shut up
Dear Black and Brown people,
I WILL NOT diminish your suffering by instantly adding disclaimers.
I WILL NOT distract from your grief by instantly pointing to others who are grieving as well.
I WILL NOT dismiss your anger. You’ve earned that.
I AM NOT THE TEACHER HERE. I am the learner.
This is NOT MY MOMENT to enlighten you.
This is NOT MY MOMENT to judge your emotions.
This is NOT MY MOMENT to make my voice louder than yours.
This is NOT MY MOMENT to pretend I know how you feel.
You don’t owe me anything. It’s not your job to educate me. I’m asking as humbly as I can . . . because I don’t know. How does a White father raising his Black son talk about the news this week?
I WILL NOT tell you how it feels to be Black. I can’t — but I will listen to my son.
And I will listen to you.
One last thing
If you’re reading this and it still squeezes your “yeah but” trigger — trust me, I get it. That’s where I’ve lived my life. Are there other truths and hard realities that can’t and shouldn’t be ignored?
COVID 19 is a dirty, rotten criminal. Ironically, not even a smooth one.
It snuck in and no one saw it coming, but it made a bunch of noise and stayed way too long. Got greedy. Got cocky. Thought it could take everything.
Got news for you COVID … you don’t get everything. Not even close.
And you’re a jerk. Nobody likes you.
Full disclosure: This post comes on the heels of weeks of self-pity and sorrow over the loss and confusion that this thief has created — head spinning and scrambling, trying to figure out what comes next. Days of feeling like all is lost.
Maybe you’re in the same boat. Like you’ve just walked in your front door and realized that your home has been ransacked.
You feel violated, vulnerable, angry, terrified.
Here are seven thoughts to help you get back what this no good, sneaky, spineless thief has taken.
ONE: Less than equals more than nothing
It has been a painful realization but I have to settle for less this year. Less connection. Less engagement. Less quality. Less certainty. Less of the people I love and want to be spending time with.
You do too.
The world does.
But less is NOT nothing.
Don’t settle for the lie of “all is lost.”
Unanticipated, unchosen, undefined, homeschool is less. But it’s not nothing.
A zoom call is less. But it’s not nothing.
Social distancing, self-isolation, and even quarantine are much, much less that what I want right now. So much less than what I am used to.
But they are not nothing.
TWO: List your losses
Something magic happens when you get specific.
The pain gets real but so does the beauty of what’s left.
It’s natural when you’ve been violated to focus entirely on the violation.
It demands your attention.
But taking the space to list the actual losses gives you the space to set those things aside and deal with them as they need to be dealt with.
What has actually been taken?
Connection with your people? Your job? Your graduation? Your retirement plan? Your dream wedding? An important funeral? Your summer plans? Your routine? Your plan? Your sanity?
Whatever it is. Call it out. Tag it. Set it apart from what hasn’t been taken.
Don’t give COVID credit for what it hasn’t accomplished.
THREE: Don’t play the victim
Thieves love a victim. That’s the whole point.
Power preys on the powerless.
The victim waits helplessly for the hero to come and rescue them.
Newsflash — this thing has impacted EVERYONE. That means that everyone needs help and everyone has the potential to help someone else.
If your ONLY focus is on seeking help then you are draining the shallow pool of resources that other people need more desperately than you.
Look around. Find a need. Meet it.
FOUR: Find your thankfuls
Time for a full life inventory. What do you have to be thankful for? Focus your attention on that.
To be clear — finding thankuls is NOT the same as ignoring loss. It’s not looking on the bright side. It’s not simply happy stamping this mess and pretending like nothing bad has happened.
But a thief would love nothing more than to steal your joy — and joy is all around you.
Pick three. What are you most thankful for, even in this mess. Start your days there and see what happens.
FIVE: Box out
Sorry. Basketball reference.
Boxing out is what happens when the shot goes up and you are close to the basket. You anticipate the miss even though you have no clue what is about to happen, and you prepare yourself to grab the ball and run with it. You do everything you can to get in position for the next play.
COVID isn’t going to last forever. How are you preparing yourself for what comes next?
SIX: Stop with the superlatives
“COVID has changed EVERYTHING!”
“NOTHING will EVER be the same!”
Stop it. Just stop it.
Focus your attention on what hasn’t changed.
Your family. Your friendships. Your people. Your places. Your values. Your routines. Your pets. The pictures on your wall. The things that make you snortlaugh. Your addiction to Netflix.
Full disclosure: I caught myself on this one. COVID for me means a whole new chapter. New country, new work, new home, new school for my kids, new community, new friends and a LOT of hard goodbyes. It was easy to say, “this changes everything.
But that’s a lie.
A lot has changed — But not EVERYTHING.
SEVEN: Find the gold
It may not feel like it at the moment but there is very likely some beautiful bit that never would have been possible apart from this jacked-up tragedy.
Time with your family? When are you EVER going to get it like this again?
Life has come to a halt? Remember when your biggest frustration was “I’m too busy?”
Don’t minimize the loss — but don’t miss the gold nuggets.
There is no doubt that this virus has taken a lot from us. It has thrown the world into shock and the losses are huge.
But pause.
Just for a moment.
Gather your bearings. Take a realistic inventory. Find the help that you need. Help someone who needs you.
In June I quit my job to pursue my passion — something I’ve been dreaming about for a long time.
So (as one does), I laid out a plan for a transition that would be as smooth and seamless as possible. Not bragging — but it was perfect.
I can hear you snort laughing. That’s rude.
This was my plan: Five weeks in the U.S., quality time with quality people and a new work visa that would allow me to do the new thing.
Oh . . . and selfies with 500 people. I was feeling optimistic.
Then — back to China and dive in.
So simple. What could go wrong?
Seriously? Again with the snort laughing?
I took a deep breath . . . and jumped.
Here’s what I didn’t plan on.
My father died — two weeks into my perfect plan.
My visa was delayed — turning 5 weeks into 14.
My kids needed to get back for school — separating me from my family for 6 weeks.
I missed the first jobs that I had lined up for the grand new thing.
Finally back in China and struggling to regain stability — my father’s wife died — sending us back to the States for an unanticipated, unbudgeted week.
And then, just in case there was anything left in my perfect plan that had not been disrupted … Cornonavirus.
Plans are awesome. Until they’re not. Am I right?
The great Scottish poet, Robert Burns said it best:
The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Ironically — China just celebrated the Lunar New Year … of the mouse.
Coincidence?
Disruptions are an inevitable reality and for anyone who has chosen a global life. That’s part is not up to you. What is up to you is how you respond.
Here are five ways to stay on track when your best-laid plans go awry
ONE: STOP PLAYING THE VICTIM ROLE
Sorry. We have to start here. Everything else hangs on it.
I’ve often said that expats are bold adventurers. The uncertainty is part of the deal and we know that going in. By nature, we are not intimidated by ambiguous challenges on the front end.
Political unrest? Not a problem.
Riots in the streets? Sounds exciting.
Ebola virus? Bring it on!!
However, we are also the first to fall apart in the airport when our plane is delayed
Stories have characters and the role of victim is the easiest part to play because it is 100% passive. Just lay there. Look sad. Put it on Instagram and wait for the sympathetic comments to roll in.
But “woe is me” thinking hands the victory to anything blocking your path. Time wasted on soliciting sympathy creates a second great wave of disruption.
And frankly, sympathy is intoxicating. It feels good — so it’s easy to get stuck there. In the big picture though, you’re not moving forward while you’re waiting for the hero to rescue you.
You are not the victim. Choose a different role.
One short disclaimer: Some stories have legitimate victims — but this is not a post about trauma or tragedy — just disruption.
TWO: PRACTICE FIRM FLEXIBILITY
There are two distinct characteristics that draw the line between expats who crush it and expats who end up in the fetal position. They seem contradictory but they are absolutely not.
Flexibility gets the air time. It’s what we put on the application for the expat assignment. It’s what shows up as a red flag on your psych evaluation when you don’t have it.
However — flexibility without firmness is all but a guarantee for failure. Your overseas assignment may be enjoyable if your greatest strength is flexibility but unless your only goal was a good time, you’re unlikely to achieve anything else.
Assignments that succeed have decision-makers. Decisive ones (which sounds redundant but is not a given). People who are willing to chart the course and say “this is absolutely the best direction and this is how we get it done.”
And THEN
When that falls apart (and there’s a good chance it will) flexibility becomes essential.
Solely flexible people get pulled in every direction.
Solely firm people snap when their plan is disrupted.
It is vital to have a plan and equally vital to have the courage to change that plan when the circumstances demand it.
Practice firm flexibility.
THREE: PULL IT OUT OF THE SWIRL
Disruptions may be expected but they are never planned.
“Sorry Coronavirus, this week really isn’t good for me, could we shoot for next Thursday … or … I don’t know, maybe never?”
It doesn’t work like that.
So the instant response is real-time adjustment in your brain — minor and major audibles called while you’re in motion. Sometimes there is a “wait and see” period with the hopes that the setback won’t even be felt or that the challenges will blow over.
Those adjustments build up quickly but until they are clearly identified and laid on top of your plan they will remain in the swirl of things that you are being forced to deal with but not really paying attention to.
So pull it out of the swirl.
Pause for a moment — even when it feels like you can’t. A critical moment to reflect on the impact of disruption could save you weeks of recovering from it later. Do it early, often, and to the best of your ability.
Ask yourself (and your team or family if applicable) some hard questions and be prepared to be brutally honest.
What is the unavoidable impact of this disruption?
What is the potential impact?
What are my actual losses?
What are my perceived losses?
Is there a potential gain in all of this?
What am I telling myself that is NOT true?
What adjustments need to be made?
Once you’ve gotten clear about the reality of this disruption you can stop pretending like nothing has changed. Then you can plug those realities into the plan and stay on track.
Adjust the plan, not the goal.
FOUR: FIND THE RHYTHM IN THE CHAOS
There’s a difference between someone who can dance and a dancer.
Full disclosure: If we’re speaking literally here — I am neitherbut follow my metaphor.
To dance, you have to learn the steps. Study hard and wrestle through every movement until you get it just right. Practice until the entire routine is flawless.
But a dancer feels it. They still work hard but the movement is more than rote memorization.
For the dancing person, one misstep or unexpected slip throws the whole thing off. It gets in their head and derails their trajectory. The next steps are a scramble as they try to find their spot and get back on point. They overthink the disruption and it impacts the entire dance.
The dancer though, moves through it. The disruption was just that — a blip in the bigger picture. Their body instinctively finds the rhythm and sets them back on track.
Chaos is often overvalued.
The impact of a disruption is real but that impact gets inflated in your head and consequently destroys things it didn’t need to.
You missed a step. You tripped and fell. Maybe the song stopped and restarted right in the middle.
Find the rhythm and keep dancing.
FIVE: DON’T MISS THE JOY
My plan didn’t work.
I didn’t plan to lose my father.
I never wrote the words, “get separated from my family for six weeks.”
I was not expecting to lose my step-mother.
No one thought Coronavirus would be a good idea.
Those things are hard. Frustrating. Horrible even. Major disruptions to my best-laid plan. They have thrown me off.
AND
BECAUSE of my disruptions …
I have had more beautiful, heartfelt, deep and meaningful moments with people I love this year than any year I can remember.
I got to go home in the middle of the winter which hasn’t happened since the last time someone died.
I road tripped around my home country and caught up with people I haven’t even seen for two decades.
I got to talk about life and death and love and legacy with my kids.
And I got selfies with 500 people which took me exactly 14 weeks … not 5.
I’m an expat.
I planned it that way and one of the realities that comes with that choice is disruption … lots of it.
That doesn’t seem likes it’s going to change anytime soon.
So to miss the joy that comes with it — would be a tragedy.
Find the joy in your disruption … and keep moving forward.
Got a story of disruption? How did you deal with it? Share below.
ONE: I’m no doctor, reporter, researcher or a public official and I am certainly no expert in nCoV-2019 (the Corona Virus that everyone around here is talking about).
I’m just an expat in China who is getting his news from the same sources you are.
The point of this post is not information or education . . . just a glimpse at what it going on here from one perspective. There are a billion and a half others.
TWO: This post is time-sensitive. It will be outdated by the time I finish writing it.
It feels a little like a ghost town around here.
The streets are empty. The shops are closed. It’s really quiet.
For context: I live in Qingdao (if you don’t know Qingdao you probably just pronounced it wrong in your head) — a city of about 9 million people on the east coast of China, roughly 1000 km (600 miles) from the virus epicenter, Wuhan.
Also for context — It’s a holiday week. China just celebrated the lunar New Year on Saturday so this is the week where things are a little quiet anyway — but not THIS quiet.
The impact of the virus is undeniable.
The government has been diligent about requesting that people stay home when they can and wear masks if they go out.
Masks are required in many of the places that remain open as well as services like DiDi (the Chinese version of Uber)
Bus lines and subways have been shut down or altered.
Our apartment complex has locked or blocked all but one gate and closely monitors anyone coming in or out. Deliveries and visitors are not allowed and residents have their temperature checked before going in.
Essentials are still available. The convenience store outside of our gate remains open as well as the market across the street and a supermarket 10 minutes away.
Veggies are in high demand.
Dozens of people stand in line at the big shops and the small shops are picked clean.
Schools have been canceled for an additional two weeks beyond the New Year break. That on top of the two week Christmas break for our international school and a quick trip back to the States for a funeral means that our kids will have been in school for 1 of 8 weeks in the middle of the winter.
Kids are thrilled.
Mamas are not.
So in summary:
The primary, direct and personal IMPACT for us is inconvenience.
The THREAT though, feels real . . . and multi-layered.
There is a PRESENT and PRACTICAL threat
The reality is that there is a scary new virus, uninvited and working its way through parts of China and eeking its way into other places.
While I am writing this about 6000 cases have been confirmed but yesterday when I started writing, that number was 4500. It’s higher if you’re reading this.
For contrast, the SARS epidemic of 2002-03 infected around 8000 people in total, however, it was more deadly than nCorona.
The impact for many people is higher than stir-crazy kids and long veggie lines.
We have lots of friends who live in Wuhan who are on complete lockdown, unable to leave. We have others who were traveling and are unable to return.
There is very much a sense of “wait and see” but that comes with an even stronger sense of “come on! seriously?”
The expat response that I have heard (primarily from Westerners) and if I’m honest, have felt myself, is that there is a lot of overreaction, bordering on light hysteria.
The flu is still killing more people.
In my city the most recent number was 15 cases . That’s .0000016% of the population.
But irritated and annoyed opinions aside. It’s out there. People have died. And (the big kicker) we don’t know what’s going to happen next.
The NY Times describes it this way:
“Outbreaks of new viral diseases are like the steel balls in a pinball machine: You can slap your flippers at them, rock the machine on its legs and bonk the balls to the jittery rings, but where they end up dropping depends on 11 levels of chance as well as on anything you do.”
The percentages may be tiny when it comes to confirmed cases compared to the population but the response is sitting right around 100%.
The uncertainty has people on edge.
Two days ago, I forgot to put my mask on and the guy at the shop nearly panicked. He told me in Chinese that there was a virus spreading and then in very clear and stern English he said, “Stay home!”
Even though the use of standard, cheap surgical masks is minimally protective at best, they seem to have provided a universal layer of slight peace of mind.
I found it especially interesting that the worker behind the supermarket meat counter was wearing a mask . . . but handled our ground pork with her bare hands.
I took a picture but with my luck the Chinese media would pick up on this post and the supermarket would be shut down.
This is where it gets interesting. Where there are gaps in understanding they are often filled with the loudest voices.
And scared people are loud.
Lists of anyone who has traveled here from Wuhan complete with their ID numbers, phone numbers, and other personal information have been circulating publicly, sparking online conversations with a mob mentality.
This threat feels like it is lurking deeper than our sheer ignorance of what this thing is and how it will impact people. Paranoia is fueled by speculation — armchair doctors who read something somewhere and tout worst-case scenarios as likely and imminent danger.
So far — they are more annoying than the virus.
All of the threats are real.
The impacts are vastly different.
The actual threat of contracting the virus remains low but is growing faster than anyone is comfortable with.
The perception threat may or may not be based in pure, scientific fact but if the veggie shop guy feels it — we don’t get veggies.
The paranoid threat is wobbly. The impact is unnecessary but very real for people who are perceived to be high risk. To date, I haven’t seen any torches or pitchforks, but the mob is chattering.
Moments like these crank up the volume . . . on EVERYTHING.
When hard uncertainties hit an entire population, every preexisting condition gets inflated.
The stress.
The anxiety.
The frustration.
The gossip.
The speculation.
The annoyance.
The paranoia.
The selfishness.
The anger.
The impatience.
The fear.
But also. The best bits.
The resolve.
The encouragement.
The support.
The solidarity.
The strength.
A different flavored mob organized a united, massive, public display of people from all over Wuhan, who, while confined to their homes, opened their windows and yelled,
“JIA YOU! WUHAN!”
“Jia you” is a beautiful and incredibly functional Chinese phrase. You hear it in the final stretch of an Olympic race or in the fourth quarter of a basketball game. You also hear it as encouragement from a good friend when you’ve been knocked down and you need to get back up.
Literally, in English, it would mean something like “Add oil” but you get the point right?
Step on the gas.
More fuel.
We’ve got this.
My friend posted this video from her neighborhood.
Just ask me and I’ll tell you about the ridiculousness of the overreaction and how genuinely irritating it is.
Just don’t ask me to be responsible for the lives and peace of mind of a fifth of the world’s people.
As a visitor, I’m thankful for the quick, decisive and strong action of authorities (government, local, school and more) who are responding not only to the threat of a real and unclear virus but also to the perception and paranoia of the people they are responsible to protect.
Whether I would do it differently or not . . . I don’t want your job.
No animals were harmed in the posting of this blog.
I’m pretty proud of that.
My mother crocheted this basketball for me more than 35 years ago. For context, she was the most gracious, tender, sweet, kind-hearted, loving knockoff artist and brand thief that has ever lived.
This ball was her response to my ridiculous, preteen desire for a Nerf hoop. You know — the kind kids used to hang on the back of their bedroom doors before smartphones were invented. The kind that probably cost about $3 in 1982. The kind all the normal kids had.
She also crocheted a hoop to go with it because she had mad yarn skills and a hypersensitive frugality gland.
I did life with this ball. Perfected my jumper. Dunked like Jordan in slow motion. Played a million games of HORSE. I even used it as the key gauge of discernment for a solid portion of my teenage years.
“If this goes in she totally likes me . . . ok, two out of three.”
Other kids had magic 8 balls. Mom offered to crochet one of those too. I passed.
In many ways, it sparked my life long love for basketball which led me to TWO high school state championships (of small Christian, private schools in Illinois) AND nearly launched a career modeling short shorts.
I’ll pause for a moment and let you take that in.
I realized something important last summer when I stumbled across my ball packed away in one of our sentimental boxes of “stuff we don’t want to throw away but also don’t want to ship all over the world a dozen times” (ask any expat if that’s confusing).
This ball is a ROCK for me. Not literally.
A ROCK is something I talk a lot about and it is CRITICAL for your kids, especially if they’re growing up under the constant cloud of neverending global transition (like mine are).
It’s a super simple concept really:
ROCKS don’t move when everything else does.
Say it backwards.
When everything else moves . . . Rocks don’t.
This is a massive game-changer for families who encounter incessant change. If that describes you then you’ve probably uttered these words in a time of chaos and self-pity:
“UGH!! EVERYTHING IS CHANGING . . . AGAIN!”
ZERO judgment here but that’s a horrible lie that we choose to believe. NOT EVERYTHING is changing but when it feels like that, it is time to get CRYSTAL CLEAR on what is STAYING THE SAME . . . what CAN stay the same.
ROCKS are the nouns and the verbs that can be true and present whether you live in a cornfield in Illinois, an apartment in China or a space station on Mars.
So I was thrilled to pass on a stable piece of my childhood to my son.
Then we got a dog — and you know what happens next.
But here’s the big, heart-wrenching REST OF THE STORY.
Ready for this?
My son (who just turned 10) broke the news to me with tact and empathy well beyond his years.
“Uhh. Dad. Do you know how to sew?”
“Yeah, a little. Why do you ask?”
With appropriate fear and sensitivity to what might happen next, he held up the shredded ball.
(next part censored)
After a few minutes (but well before the steam had stopped rolling out of my ears) he spoke with a shaky voice that I’ve only heard from others offering condolences at a funeral.
“Dad.”
Me, still fuming, flaring my nose, gritting my teeth and determined not to take it out on him.
“Yes.”
“I’m feeling two emotions right now.”
“Ok.”
“One. Sadness. Because this is the only thing I have from Grandma Paula and I never even got to meet her.”
“Ok.”
“And two. Forgiveness.”
And here are the morals of the story:
ROCKS matter. Whoever you are — however you are doing life — something needs to NOT change.
Even ROCKS don’t last forever. Stuffed ducks get lost. 8 balls break. Dogs happen.
The things that ROCKS represent, and teach and instill in the character of your kids are worth a billion times more.
It feels really good when you realize you are raising kids who are better than you.
And here is the happy ending.
I think we can save the ball. Won’t be perfect. But even the scar . . . will be a reminder of forgiveness.
And hey — if you don’t know what your rocks are . . . figure them out.
