Here I sit, in a spacious but solitary dark room, lit by one lamp and my computer screen. Utterly exhausted, I let the slivers of time–my opportunities to contact home–slip out of my hands. My Chinese history teacher and advisor says, “It’s China. I’ve used that to explain everything ‘different’ recently. And it works!” However, I don’t think I can agree. I’m not too sure about my decision to go overseas for school. To put it metaphorically, I feel like the cup of tea that was my American life had a hammer taken to it. In response to this, I frantically tip the table, attempting to angle the spilled contents into a miniature teacup, labeled “China.”

    First of all, I have to apologize. I had promised to write an article each month. Quite frankly, the work load transition caught me off guard. Somehow the Chinese teachers think we can handle the same amount of homework each night as the Chinese kids; I will spend 3-4 hours alone on Mandarin (of which I had the “luck” of placing into the highest level), or sometimes more depending on the assignment; they’ve required us to do everything from conducting interviews on Bei Jing traffic, to writing five paragraph essays on failure and success. Still, my GPA has drastically dropped; the only two classes I excel in are Er Hu (the Chinese two stringed violin) and San Da (Chinese Mixed Martial Arts). Sadly, these two classes are taken pass/fail. Classes at School Year Abroad are arguably as rigorous as that the students at Er Fu Zhong take. But of course, everything’s “Americanized” for us.

    To say life in China is drastically different from that in the U.S. is an understatement. Stepping out of the front door, the pollution meanders its way into your lungs and ignites a fire for you, no need to inhale. Street vendors hawk at you to buy their (fake) goods. Ironically, you hear them yell, “Quick! Put everything away!” as the police shuffle down the cramped streets. Texting demands the same amount of attention as a normal phone call; if someone texts you and you don’t text them back, it’s considered ridiculously insulting. Sometimes I see people playing basketball after school, and I ask myself, “Where do they get all the free time?” I remember the theme of the first unit in my second Mandarin class (I take two of them) was “I want to fully experience Chinese culture.” Is this what the book meant by Chinese culture? Struggling to pull through your classes with a B average, returning home, shutting the door and burying your head in 8 classes worth of homework? I don’t know, but as I learned my first year in Scripture class, everything rewarding is earned through struggle. Speaking of which (the latter), last week the Chinese teachers requested us to write 2 page speeches, memorize them, and present them 4 days later. I erroneously believed I would have an advantage, having done this for 5 years in middle school. Instead my presentation ended in a complete debacle; during my oration, I abruptly told them, “Yeah I’m REALLY nervous.” and pulled through the rest of my speech, stopping every line to calm myself and prepare for the next. Leaving my failure in the presentation hall, I walked outside to see it was snowing. This was my first time seeing snow. I wondered what would be better: to be freezing out here, or to be on that stage.

    The dynamic of the Chinese family also can’t be compared to my American one. Ironically, my semi-Americanized dad stresses the “Traditional Chinese” culture more than my host parents do. Mainland China has become a pragmatist’s land; from my experience, families no longer stress the absolute epitome of unity within their households. While my host mom watches the medical channel in one room, my host father embarks on tirades about international relations or esoteric herb mountains (this has actually done wonders for my Mandarin proficiency, although I still don’t understand half of what he says because he starts talking about countries I’ve never heard of in English). At the end of the meal, everyone leaves. I return to my homework, my host mom goes to work, and my host dad takes my host mom’s spot at the television. Everything has been “pragmatisized” by the government. Maybe those Han Dynasty Confucian values failed to survive Mao’s purging of the Four Olds (The Four Olds–customs, culture, habits, and ideas–were matters that Mao believed would interfere with China’s industrial development. In 1966 Mao launched a campaign to purge the Four Olds, consequently causing the current moral crisis in China). What broken society needs filial piety and social morality anyways?

As far as leisure goes, the only activity I found is an hour away from my house by subway. I currently take Wing Chun, known primarily as the martial art which created the foundation for Bruce Lee’s success in the film industry. Although I’m euphoric (actually I’m somewhat dissatisfied because I cut my practice hours from 17 a week to 3) to continue my hobby here in China, my classmates demonstrate a different enthusiasm and interest; while practicing a drill with a classmate, he randomly, punched me in the face (not sparring). In confusion, but still eager to practice I calmly stood back up, only to be met with an abrupt yell. Despite the fact that there are a myriad of Chinese accents, I don’t think anyone understood what he was saying. Two things left me in quandary: what had compelled a grown man to punch me, a foreign student half his age and weight? Was this just an opportunity for me to see the stresses of daily life? Was he, like most workers, stressed and dissatisfied from their quality of life?  Perhaps was he just naturally aggressive. And secondly, why did no one say anything? Was it normal for strangers to punch foreign teenagers in the face (well there was the boxer rebellion in 1905, but in terms of 21st Century China)? Maybe they just thought nothing of it. I certainly wouldn’t like to think that this is a natural facet of Chinese culture…

    To put it bluntly, the city moves faster than my mind can. My Mandarin teachers tell me that I’ve improved, but I still feel like I’m stuck in one place, like Bei Jing’s civilians during traffic. Sometimes I wonder if I was ready. I used the same rationality as China’s migrant workers, compelled by instinct and engendered by desire. My other classmates somehow accepted the challenge of school in China with more adamant attitudes. I envy them. I study to the extent that I don’t even know if I’m experiencing the culture over here; it seems like I accomplish nothing, no matter where I go.

I wonder what life would be like if I stayed home. Every so often I get an email from Mr. Sazo, talking about protocol for a certain Mass day or special event. If I stayed, I could’ve gone to Winter Ball and Junior Prom, I could have taken AP classes (instead of 3 classes as hard as APs with no weighted credits), I could have been a club leader. I’ve constantly looked back on my days in middle school, freshman, and sophomore year, trying to figure out what I did right; I constantly ask myself, how did I survive those two years?  During a recent call home, my father told me how my elementary school teachers ironically didn’t know how to educate me in 4th grade; I was too advanced for the curriculum. Now I wonder if I really had that potential, or my dad just said that to make me feel better. Day by day I try to find that buried prodigy in my childhood, hoping to find something that can assist me. I remember talking about the hero’s cycle in freshman year, where Ms. Bechelli told us how a hero has to hit “rock bottom” in order to come back stronger. Now, I wonder if this is just an archetype we live by in order to falsely inspire us into continuing on, or if there’s truth in freshman level literature. It’s only been 3 months in and I’m already wondering, should I have left Sacred Heart?