Entry #10 Rain and Cigarettes

The rain trickles down onto the worn concrete road outside my door. And before I know it, it’s already the middle of April. I have only weeks before I leave this place. I know for sure I’ll miss it, but what exactly I’ll miss about it I have yet to discover. It’s like searching for a song on your ipod that exactly depicts your current mood but being unable to find it. So you turn it off and write in the pseudo-silence of raindrops beating softly against your windowpane.

There’s something I love about smoking outside my door at night, especially on nights when it rains. Not a thundering downpour, but just the steady, regular falling of long overdue rain. I look down my alleyway framed by the houses on either side, quiet now, but so full of life within. I get the feeling that the world is mine and mine alone. I stare at the glistening concrete walkway leading to the central alleyway of the small neighborhood, the main artery of the community, its life force being fed by the dimly lit doorways that line the sides. The sheen of the wet ground guides the orange light of the street lamps and leads them trailing into each branching alleyway. The one coming into mine doesn’t quite reach my door, but I turn on the bathroom light to meet it half-way. I squat down and lean against the left side of my doorway, so low in fact, that my fingers can feel the wetness of the ground, though I'm not exactly touching it. The smoke from my cigarette rises and disappears into the purple sky reflecting the neon lights of the city. I rest my face into the cradle where my left arm and shoulders meet and the scent of fresh laundry fills my nostrils. It’s a sharp contrast to the cigarette smoke filling my lungs at regular intervals like a heartbeat. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Spit. I close my eyes as the sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata fill my ears and my lips stretch unexpectedly into an unmistakable smile. I like this. Is this what I’ll miss? I could imagine doing the same thing back at home, smoking on my balcony on a rainy night. Not a downpour, but a soft steady trickle like tonight, but it wouldn’t be the same. There would be none of the calm and loneliness to it even though Houston is a city less than half the size of this one. I’ll miss the bikes forever parked in front of my window. They’re there when I head out in the morning, and look untouched upon my return, save the little extra bit of dirt around the wheel spokes. I’ll miss them too. The end of the cigarette is the hardest part for me because I have to close the door and turn my back on that alleyway leading into this city. But I snuff out the bud nevertheless, and with a flick of my fingers I send it into the rain. For a moment, I stay there, squatting in the doorway with the warmth of a small wattage light bulb upon my back, and watch the light of the cigarette as it dies out, fading into the darkness. The blood rushes to my legs as I get up, but I pay no attention to it, noticing only my outstretched shadow projecting into the long narrow alleyway. It’s the end of another day as I close the door and head inside.

Entry #9 I was on a Dating Show (Part I)

Going on television has always been an undisclosed dream of mine, a guilty pleasure that the prouder side of me had kept hidden since childhood. And it’s not that being on TV is necessarily something painfully common or reserved for the ignorant masses, for some very intelligent people are on TV nowadays and they always seem to have something rather insightful to say about this, that and the other. But wanting to be on TV, now THAT is something reserved purely for fat middle age grocers name Gladys and other similarly talented individuals. For most of us that grew up in the generation of The Price is Right, Family Feud, and Friday night TV dinners to the tune of TGIF, going on television was an honor bestowed upon the luckiest or often times, best looking few, a criteria that, sadly, the majority of us fall short of. I am not lucky. I can tell you this because for the past 23 years of my life, I’ve pretty much lived under the huge phallus-shaped shadow of Lady Luck’s finger, but imagine my surprise upon arriving in China to discover that the large majority of people here did not share in my passions for this lower-middle class American dream and as a result, going on TV was no longer a task as difficult as attaining enlightenment or stealing cake from an obstinate diabetic. The opportunity had finally arrived for me to realize the shameful dream of my childhood, and admittedly, even now.

The entire deal began with Terry’s appearance on a show called “Dating on Saturday”. But before I begin, I suppose I should explain as to who Terry is. Terry is this laidback guy who came to Shanghai from the coast of California. Long black hair parted in the middle, unshaven face, bright toothy smile, he reminded me of a 1980’s Hong Kong film director – the ones that made kung fu movies, not porn. We met at my friend Judy’s birthday party and that’s where he told me that he was interviewing for a dating show.

“I’m interviewing for a dating show” he said.

Up to now, with the exception of the ambiguously gay guy we all knew in college who danced his way through every scene in MTV’s Roomraiders, I had never actually met a person who had been chosen for a dating show. So I asked him the question that any normal American guy struck by tube-dom would attempt to ask.

“How did you do it?” I asked, like some driveling 5 year old who just witnessed the world’s bestest magic trick.

“I just signed up online” he said in that casual, nonchalant, my-grandmother-could-do-it way as he coolly swept back a few strands of silky black hair from his forehead.

And so it was decided. After hearing of Terry’s effortless triumph over the shadowless gatekeepers of TV land, I figured – quite free from the help of logic and reasoning - that if someone I met could go on TV then my chances of success simply must have increased by association. I mean, it was just so painfully obvious. Like, Doh.

So long story short, I got on the show.

Entry #8 Globalization

Someone told me once about a thing called globalization and how it would be the future of our world, how 747s would carry the fanatacism of Tibetan culture into the the heart of Harlem and how little girls in Ghana would be dancing to the tunes of the latest American idol, broadcasted via their new ipod with satellite technology. All the punk-rockers in the Middle-East would be so happy.

Even in my drab little town, I could see it with my own eyes. Vibrant cultures of every sort infusing my modest American suburb with some much needed vitality. Asian, African, European, you could taste the flavors of the world on your tongue with every invigorating breath of air. Not to say, of course, that the town had lost its sense of nationalism. Patriotism was very much alive and the star-spangled banner hung high outside every home came the first few days of July. It was one's duty after all, to love one's country. But like most times in history, there was often a difference between what hung outside our doors and what was held within our hearts.

Even here in Shanghai, half a world away, I can see the effects of globalization. Having begun its influence on this avant-garde city of the East in the long ago years before the great revolution, its footprints are more profound here than in any other region of this pubescent country. But unlike the developed western nations, its influence here is not quite so complete. One can distinctly detect an overwhelming bias, even prejudice in its works. The billboards and commercials pitching cosmetic products to women/men of all ages, L'Oreal, Nivea, Maybelline, they provide therapy for a generation of people that can't come to terms with who they are. Is this a result of globalization? I see western culture oozing out from the crevices of the city streets, but it's not the real thing. Far from it, it lacks the soul of the romantics. There is none of the inherent morals or values that has shaped me and billions of others into who they are today. What we get here are the dead things, the clothes, the make-up, the movies, the trendy bars and restaurants. People here don't enjoy the luxury of being able to travel freely, so they never discover the ridiculous falseness of it all. It's like some virus filled blister that just keeps getting larger because it feeds on the healthy cells trapped within. People here can't choose what they're exposed to and they haven't the ability to escape that which is forced upon them. It's like poison gas over the airwaves, destroying people en mass, in that stealthily invisible and odorless way.

I will not deny that perhaps globalization is indeed the future of our world, but as responsible advocates of justice, I believe we should never allow our curiosity to falter. We must ask ourselves, who are the people leading this movement and to what extent do they stand to benefit? Is globalization really as noble and grand as its name suggests or is it just a veil of good will disguising some classic plot of tyranny?

The things I see keep me questioning.