I Think I Might Be Amish

I could totally pull off the Amish look, don’t you think?

I felt strangely amish today . . . in a bizarre, science fiction, alternate universe, I live in China where there are no Amish people kind of way.  From now on I will be blogging by candlelight.

I grew up in a part of America that we call the midwest.  Actually, if you look at a map, most of the “midwest” is geographically closer to the East coast but no one in that particular part of the country prefers to say they live in the Middle East . . . so we call it the midwest.

Midwestern values are simple.  Sit up straight, don’t cuss in front of your mother, buy American and don’t stare at people.  Like all values though, there are exceptions.  For example as important as it is to buy American products (we start riots over this) it is acceptable to buy imports if and only if said imports are 1. cheaper . . .  2. better quality . . . or 3. closer to where you live.  Hence Wal-Mart . . . and Toyota  . . . and everything else.

The two exceptions to the “no staring” rule are as simple as the value itself.  

1. Staring is allowed if the person or persons being stared at are obviously unaware that the staring is taking place.  It’s a little known fact that Midwesterners have distinctively over developed neck muscles and a keen sense of peripheral vision.  The neck muscles are developed by repeated “glance aways” which is the proper response when one is caught staring.  The peripheral vision allows them to intuitively sense when it is all clear to turn back and commence staring.

2.  It is acceptable to stare if the person or persons being stared at are the exact combination of really strange AND not a threat to your physical well being.  Ironically “strange” can encompass a broad range of traditionally non-midwestern characteristics but non-threatening is pretty cut and dried.  For example, large tattoos on a pasty white teenager with orange hair and multiple face piercings leaning against the wall outside of the mall smoking a Virginia Slim cigarette.  Ok to stare.  Large tattoos on a huge, bearded man with a pony tail and black leather jacket that is embroidered with a human skull and the words “Kill em’ all, let God sort em’ out” straddling a Harley Davidson, smoking a Marlboro Red . . . Look away. Determining who fits the exception and who doesn’t is complex and confusing to the outsider but for the midwesterner it is second nature.

The Amish fit perfectly into exception number 2. 

They are a fascinating group of people who migrated to the States from Europe in the 18th century and have been led by their religious convictions to live the simple life, free of modern technology such as electricity, automobiles, telephones and iPads.  They also embrace very simplistic, non-commercial fashion guidelines similar to that of Ma, Pa and Laura from Little House on the Prairie (all of which makes them really strange . . . at least in the spying eyes of the common mid-westerner).  They are famous for outstanding craftsmanship, building barns in one day, long beards and non-violent, pacifist living (which makes them non-threatening and even a little bit cuddly).

Prime for staring at.

When I was a kid we would occasionally drive through “Amish country”.  There was a giddiness that came with the trip.  My mother, who was generally the prime enforcer of the “no staring” rule, would transform into some kind of Amish marketing rep.  “We’re in Amish country Jerry . . . better look out the window we might see one . . . I wonder how many we’ll see today”.  Now that I have kids I realize that this was just a sneaky parent trick to buy a few minutes of peace and quiet but it worked like a charm, every time.  I would sit with my face pressed against the window waiting for the adrenaline rush of a big black horse and buggy.  Just being in proximity where I knew we MIGHT see a real, live Amish person was electric.  In my mind I drifted to a strange place, dreaming of how awesome it would be to live the Amish life and knowing full well that I wouldn’t like it one bit.

“There’s one!  There’s one!” It’s like we were whale watching.

Dad would slow down and as we passed I would wave as excitedly as if they had been Mickey and Minnie themselves.  They waved back with less enthusiasm than I would have expected from the Disney’s but still . . . they waved.

Several times on our recent trip to the States we had an occasion to drive through the Amish communities and the magic lives on.  The moment I would see the big yellow horse and buggy sign I would have the kids perched on their lookout.  “There’s one! There’s one!”  One day we counted eight.  Good times.

I live in a Chinese community that is also home to a lot of foreigners (like me).  While we come from all over the world most of the foreigners around here share two characteristics.  We are really strange and generally non threatening.  Walking home today I saw a mother grab her daughter and playfully whisper something into her ear.  The little girl laughed and looked at me.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what the mother was saying . . . “There’s one! There’s one!”  

Nothing new.  That happens everywhere we go.  It’s the price of being strange and non-threatening but I wonder if it’s different around our apartment where so many the foreigners live.  Do Chinese parents elbow their kids and say, “hey we’re in foreigner country, pay attention you might see one”? Do kids keep track of how many they see?  Do they dream about what it would be like to live the life of a foreigner and know that they would never like it?

As they passed the little girl smiled and gave me the all too familiar, “HALLO!” I smiled back and with the enthusiasm of an Amish Mickey Mouse said, “HALLO!”

Sometimes its good to see myself through the eyes that I use to look at the rest of the world.  I’m so Amish.  

One Man’s Trash is a Little Girl’s Playground

Grandpa has a junk pile that puts Disney World to shame. For at least two months we have been gearing up for this trip to the States and the most anticipated spot in the country for my daughter has been the hill behind her Grandpa’s shed where old machinery goes to die.  Ironically this is the place where her imagination comes to life.Her excitement dates back two years to the time we restored a 1956 Chevy Tricycle that we pulled out of a tree (see pics below).  Actually it was a compilation of at least three trikes and we had a blast making it shine and painting it blue (as all tricycles should be).  It was a brilliant father daughter bonding project which all of the books on how to be a good parent encourage.  It builds confidence.  I’m afraid that parenting strategy may have backfired on me though.  We did such a great job on the tricycle restoration that she now wants to dig pieces out of Grandpa’s junk pile to build a working Go-Kart or a moon rock retrieving rocket that explodes on the way down so you have to see if you can find the freshly retrieved moon rock.  Who is this child?

Next visit we’re going to build Disney World.  

 The Tricycle Project
BEFORE
BONDING
AFTER

 

International Travel Tip #13: When Flying – Embrace Bad Parenting

My wife and I have decided that we become freakishly horrible parents when we are traveling.  And we’re ok with that.

I noticed it first on the 13 hour 39 minute and 24 second plane ride from Hong Kong to Chicago.  This is the flight that I have been dreading for months.  The mere thought of it has caused me to instantly break into full body hives with violent eye twitches.  Our two year old doesn’t sit in a taxi for five minutes without kicking out a window and now we’re going to lock him in a flying tube with 500 strangers from all over the world?  What are we thinking?

I was thrilled to see that each seat on the plane was equipped with “Video on Demand.”  Personal television screens mounted just above the tray table, each with access to more than 100 movies, 4000 video games and 11 million episodes of Friends all at the push of a button.  It didn’t relieve all of the stress but at least there was hope that he would be partially distracted.  As we took off I consciously decided that this precious child, whose mind and welfare have been entrusted to me by God Almighty, could watch television without interruption for more than half of an entire day as long as he didn’t kick out a window.  I was fully aware how bad of a parent this made me but I did not care.  I was flashing back to the episode of Twilight Zone (up there) where Captain Kirk went nuts on a plane and got sucked outside at 20,000 feet.  Hives.  Twitches.  TV.

Somewhere over Russia I had an epiphany.  I realized I was no longer a good parent.  My son had developed a full blown addiction to the Mickey Mouse Club and I was both his enabler and his dealer.  For the first 4 hours I tried to get him to watch something else but 10 minutes into any show and he would beg for Mickey.  I would insist in my authoritative Daddy voice and he would begin to cry and eyeball the window like he was Chuck Norris.

Mickey it is.

Occasionally he would get restless and I would try giving him a cookie, or his juice or some cash.  If nothing worked we would take a walk to the back where he would jump and dance and charm the flight attendants out of cookies, juice and cash.  I quickly discovered that the only way to get him back to the seat was by saying “Hey you wanna go watch Mickey.”  Enabler.  About 8 hours in he was saying “Mickey dancing, Mickey dancing.”  I realized that now we were not just stuck on one show but I was actually rewinding to the 1 minute and 13 second segment where Mickey dances.  “Please son!  Can we please, PLEASE watch Umi Zoomi or Scooby Doo or Friends for crying out loud?!!”

“MI . . . KEEE DANCING!!” 

“ok.” (rewind)

What was I gonna’ do?  Put him in time out?

We survived the ride and it was worth every hive but we’ve completely given up on responsible parenting.  As we have traveled we’ve thoroughly enjoyed letting him stay up too late, eat too many cookies, fight with his sister and run in the house with a fork in his hand.  It has been a blast to watch him connect, for the first time in his memory, with two sets of Grammagrampas (all one word in his vocabulary) and more cousins than he could have ever dreamed.   I think the greatest epiphany in the whole story is that we’ve got these kids for a while.  As much as we want them to be well-rounded, well disciplined, well-mannered and well . . . perfect, we also want them to remember the year we went home for Christmas . . . and it was awesome!

We’ll go back and clean up the bad parenting mess later.  We thought we might try today so we insisted that our son eat his breakfast which ended in an epic battle of the wills that lasted an hour into lunch.  A crowd of senior citizens gathered at the Wal-Mart McDonalds just to stare at the horrible parents trying to feed their kid a cold piece of sausage before they would give him his Happy Meal.  I am proud to say that we arose victorious (alive but badly wounded) and he finally ate the tiny piece of meat that he had loudly refused for half of the day.  Then we gave him his Happy Meal . . . and some donuts . . . then he stopped eating his Happy Meal because he wanted more donuts . . . so we alternated (young parents take note).  I looked at my wife and said, do you realize we’re bribing our son to eat Chicken McNuggets . . . with donuts?  She  looked me square in the eye and said three of the sexiest words I think I ever heard her say.

“I don’t care.”

I love my wife and I love my kids and I love the story that we’re building together.  

Tomorrow we find out what happens when two year olds drink Red Bull and play with Grammagrampas duct tape.  I’ll probably blog about that.

Second best Twilight Zone ever.

Congratulations St. Louis Cardinals, 2011 World Champions . . . of the “World”

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


Really.  I’m not.

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

All things considered, it was fun to watch game 7 with her all the way over here in China and cheer her Cards on to victory.  Watching big American championship games in China is always fun but lacks the atmosphere and buzz of being back home.  Superbowl parties generally begin around 7am and include pancakes but may not include commercials.  We saw the Cardinals win about 8 hours after it happened but were still able to enjoy it without knowing who was going to win.  Just me, my Card fan 8 year old and my 2 year old son who was cheering, “Go CUBBIES!”
I lost one . . . I will not lose the other.
So Congratulations Cardinals on once again winning the World Series . . . wait, I mean “World” (finger quotes) Series.  Don’t for a moment let it steal your joy that of the world’s 234 nations only 2 are eligible to compete in this self proclaimed “world” event or that those two nations represent about 5% of the people in that world.  Take heart redbirds because 25 million people tuned in to watch you win!!  That is significant St. Louis.  That means that on the entire planet only 99.6% of the human population were not watching.  You are indeed world champions . . . in your own little way.  And to you fans of the “World” Champions, hold your head high.  Don’t let the numbers get you down because really . . . no one likes a bitter fan.
I would like to point out however that in real life a bear (even a baby one) would maul and eat a bird (even a red one with a big bat).  Next year.

The Day Grandma Got Us Kicked Out of Mexico

My dear Grandma (who is presently enjoying heaven) was once described by my mother (her own daughter) as being (and I quote) “about as cheerful as diarrhea“.

She rarely spoke (and she was rarely not speaking) without mentioning someone who had recently passed on or someone who was about to pass on or how she felt like her time to pass on was coming up quickly.  She had a certain offensive obliviousness to her that allowed her to completely insult an entire room full (possibly a city full) of people and genuinely have absolutely no shred of a concept that she might have alluded to something even remotely unpleasant.  When we told her we were adopting a child from China her first response was . . .

“Couldn’t you get one from America?”

 

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

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I never once sensed an ounce of sincere hatred in her heart for any group or race of people (except for maybe Southern Baptists) but by today’s standards she would register on the polar opposite end of the scale from politically correct . . . or polite . . . or acceptable in public.
IRONICALLY . . .I think it might have been my grandmother who planted the first seeds of cross-cultural curiosity in me.  Grandpa was a WWII vet and then a General Baptist Pastor (not Particular . . . not Reformed and most certainly not Southern Baptist . . . bite your tongue heretic) for more than 50 years.  He and Grandma made several trips to the Holy Land (the General Baptist one) and when they did they took the chance to see some other parts of the world a bit.  When I was five they were the only people in my life who had seen any parts of the world a bit which made them my superheros.  I had a stuffed camel from Egypt, some wooden shoes from Holland and a “My Grandma and Grandpa went to Jerusalem and all I got was this stinking t-shirt” t-shirt.  I was king for three straight weeks of show and tell.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“How much?”
“For you lady . . . $14”
smiling because she knew in her heart what she was about to do“no no . . . I’ll give you 7”
smiling because he had no idea the force he was reckoning with,“Oh lady . . . for you, 13.”
“Nah . . . 7”
“Oh come on lady . . . I come down you come up . . . I’ll go 12”
squinting confidently with a smirk“mmm . . . how about 7?”
squinting in disgust  “you give me 10 lady”
nothing but a grin 

 

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

 

I swear this happened.  My Grandma said “5”.
“FIVE DOLLARS?!! YOU ALREADY SAID 7!! YOU CAN’T SAY 5!! 
Still grinning.  “Yeah, I think 5 now.”
pulling out handfuls of his own hair. “LADY I GIVE YOU YOUR PRICE, SEVEN DOLLARS!!!”  
“hmm . . . nah . . . five.”
“OK!! OK!! OKAAAY!! FIVE DOLLARS!! YOU WIN YOU WIN, YOU *something I think was a Mexican cuss word.*
And I swear this happened too . . . My Grandma said, “nah.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

Zai Jian Jezza

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

I love the sweet simplicity of “goodbye” in Chinese.  

“Zai Jian”

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you again Secret Plum Festival.  We love you.