"I Want To Be A Bro"

In my city, I attend a rather small gym. It has all the necessary equipment that I could want (considering I try and do pretty basic exercises) and it usually isn't very crowded.

Occasionally, a stranger will approach me and strike up some type of conversation. If they speak a little English, the conversation usually is minced words like, "strong" and "good." But most of the time these conversations are with people who speak English. Culturally, I've just had to get used to people approaching me for no reason other than to engage in conversation. That's basically a normal thing to do here. Oh, you look interesting. I'm going to come ask you questions now.

With that in mind, I met a few students who actually went to (or currently attend) school in the states, but had come home for the summer holiday. One in particular is named Ming. He's approached me many times before and he usually likes to talk about one thing: working out. I know some things about working out, but I'm definitely no source of wisdom, which means I always just nod along when he approaches. Oh, you're doing a cross-fit workout? Awesome. No, I don't eat six raw eggs a day, that's not really something for me.

Last week I found myself doing sit-ups, dangling on the apparatus by my feet and sweating, when who should approach, but Ming. Despite the fact I was mid sit-up, Ming decided that this was a perfect time for conversation,
   
"Hey Ryan, what are you doing?"

"Just doing some sit-ups." as I expelled air, moving up and down

"Cool, cool. Today is my upper body day."

"That's awesome." I said, very breathy

"Yeah, I want to be able to curl as much with my arms as most people bench press."

"Well, then your arms would be bigger than your head." I let out, sitting up for a second to catch my breath

"Ryan, do you know what they call the guys who wear tight shirts?"

"Huh?" OK, now he'd lost me

"The guys who wear backwards baseball hats, tight shirts, and are really...jacked."

"You mean a 'bro?'"

"What's a bro?"

"Those guys who wear the hats and the shirts and have lots of muscles. A bro."

"Oh...well I want to be a bro."

Oh no--what had I done. In my absence of thought, I had perpetuated an American stereotype; particularly one that I didn't like. What was I doing? I had come to this country to educate people about American culture and to teach English to the best of my ability. Now, I was introducing crappy vernacular to strangers. Failure filled my mind as I felt the Chinese/American cultural pool being tainted with my words. I had become the poison in the well. I usually joke about words like this, usually trying to use them in ironic ways, but with obvious language and cultural barriers, things had been overlooked in my speech.

With this in mind, I figured that I might as well just teach my Kindergarten class words like, "thug," "YOLO," and maybe "dawg." I was already on a downward spiral, I might as well just help the rest of the country get there too.

I sighed a little. Being a bro was something I had never aspired to, but apparently this was a Chinese university student's ultimate goal. Bro-status, I guess you could call it.

"Ryan, is there a Chinese word for this 'bro?'" Ming asked

"Mm...nah, I don't think there is. It's just kind of an...American thing I guess."

"Oh, well that's cool."

I had already taught him 'bro,' so by then I figured I might as well seal the deal.

"Yeah, now you're going to want to start wearing long socks with shorts." I said to him jokingly. If he was going to transition into bro, he should at least be thorough.

"Long socks with shorts?"

"Yeah, bro's wear long socks with shorts."

"...Why would I do that?"

Well, She Lives In The Moon...

The following are conversations I've had in my oral English classes. The class is centered around having conversations about certain topics picked every day in a group setting. My students are between the ages of 12-16 with varying levels of English speaking ability, so some concepts and ideas are lost in the translation from Chinese to English. The conversations have been slightly edited for the sake of understanding and continuity. 

Subject of Conversation: Hobbies

Ryan: So Charlotte, tell me about your hobbies.

Charlotte: I like to watch TV

Ryan: That is your only hobby? TV?

Charlotte: Yes, that is all.

Ryan: Oh...well what is your favorite TV show

Charlotte: I like... *motions two fingers towards her neck* ...Diaries.

Ryan: Vampire Diaries?

Charlotte: Yes, Vampire Diaries.

Alice: What is your favorite show?

Ryan: Me? I don't really watch a lot of TV.

Alice: What do you do?

Ryan: I like to read a lot. Actually, I don't even own a TV.

Alice: (with an incredulous look on her face) Are you poor?


Subject of Conversation: The Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival or Moon Cake Festival

Ryan: OK, Charlotte, what is your favorite holiday?

Charlotte: I like Mid-Autumn Festival.

Ryan: Tell me about the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Jack: We eat moon cakes.

Ryan: What's a moon cake?

Sherlock: Like a...small pie.

Ryan: OK, why do you celebrate Mid-Autumn festival; or, why do you do it?

Jack: We have Mid-Autumn festival because the moon give birth to the girl.

Ryan: Wait, what?

Jack: The girl, Chang'e, lives in the moon...with her rabbit.

Ryan: So why does she live in the moon?

Harriet: One day, the girl was sad so she ate a...pill.

Charlotte: --then she flew to the moon.

Ryan: So this girl flew to the moon because she ate a pill...and she lives with her rabbit?

Jack: Yes.

Harriet: One day, bad people were trying to steal the...pill.

Charlotte: And her husband wanted to live with her in the moon.

Harriet: Then they could be together forever.

Ryan: People tried to take the pill?

Harriet: Yes, and the husband did not want them to take.

Jack: So the woman ate the pill.

Harriet: And flew to the moon.

Charlotte: Now we eat moon cakes.


Subject of conversation: Hobbies

Ryan: Reya, tell me your hobbies.

Viola with a sad face. Get it? Get it? Ehhhhehe.
Puns people, puns.

Reya: (after a long awkward pause)...I don't have hobbies, I only have things I do every day.

Ryan: OK then, tell me what you do every day.

Reya: I have a piano. It lives in my room. I like to read Shakespeare.

Ryan: Very good, what else do you like to do?

Reya: I play the viola. I play the viola...with a sad face.

Ryan: OK, so you play the viola...what do you guys think of that (motioning to the rest of the class)

(The rest of the class sits in silence with scared/confused looks on their face)

Ryan: --So, Harriet! Tell me about your hobbies.

The Massage

I've never had a massage before. Yes, I really haven't (at least the ones that you pay for). That is, until last week.

The week prior had been especially trying (as most people justify in their minds that their week is harder and more difficult than anyone else's ever) since work had really just worn me out. The constant traveling and heat, coupled with there always being people everywhere always was just enough to make me want to start stabbing myself in the eye with anything that came into view. This would probably unsuccessful since I see a lot of rice and noodles. 

Friday progressed as usual; work was finished and Jake and I decided to venture to the store to replenish our juice supply before the weekend. Walking around the packed Wal-Mart, Jake had, what I could call an, "I'm not dealing with this anymore," moment.

"We're getting massages." he said. The week had done him in as well, enough that he needed another human to rub his body and then he would pay them. With that, he pulled out his phone and called one of our friends to help us set up an appointment for later that night. I've never had a massage before, I thought to myself. Please don't let things get weird.

A couple hours later, we were entering a large building that was neighbor to a, for lack of better words, pseudo-hooker palace. Jake had informed me that this was a Thai massage parlor and that our friend Nicholas would meet us there. 

Upon arrival, the staff gave us black rubber sandals that had been warmed, as if by putting them inside a microwave and hitting the popcorn setting. This was surprisingly comfortable as I was escorted into the room where we would be receiving our massages. After the staff opened the door, three beds lay in front of me each with crisp white sheets and two large pillows that appeared incredibly soft like clouds unaffected by the Chinese pollution. We were instructed to take a seat and relax (which is a word that I've learned is a staple in Chinese culture) until the staff returned and dropped off on each of our beds a small plastic bag. The bags were clear and inside I could see the contents consisted of what looked to be an outfit.

"Change!" our friend Nicholas urged. We opened the bags and discarded the wrapping and unfolded a pair of blue shorts and blue shirt. Both were embroidered with gold vine-like designs that wrapped up and down the fabric in a way that suggested they were royal. The shorts and shirt themselves resembled what would closely resemble a pair of pajamas a middle aged man had obtained in his early teens and had decided to keep despite the fact they began to climb up his body.

I quickly slipped into my new outfit and resumed my seat on the bed when three masseuses entered the room. My first initial thought was that we had ordered the wrong kind of massage due to how these women were dressed. Each girl was wearing a dress that resembled a flight attendants uniform. Though, these flight attendants were most likely starring in an adult film. The blue fabric clung close to their body as the neckline dove down to areas unknown. The hem ventured into the area that most would describe as "swimsuit" zone and this only made me convinced that I might be seeing more of her than she would of me (not that I wanted to be naked in front of a masseuse).

"Chinese medicine!...for your kidneys."

Not speaking any Chinese to understand, the girl motioned for me to lay on my stomach while she plopped the pillow down at the foot of the bed and began to rub my back.

"Nicholas, do they offer any other services here, like having your feet cleaned?" Jake asked, motioning towards his well-trodden feet, covered in the days dirt.


"Oh yes, yes! Would you like them to do that now?" Without hesitation, Nicholas proceeded to speak to the girls in Chinese as they left the room to prepare to take care of our feet.

"Well, we don't have to today..." Jake said, "I was just wondering if they did. But I guess now is good too."

The three returned with buckets full of scalding hot water and motioned for us to dunk our feet in. I looked down at the bucket in front of my bed and saw the steam radiating upwards and knew this wasn't going to be without pain. Not wanting to be "that guy" that takes his sweet time to actually take the dive into the pool, I plunged my feet into the water and silently screamed in my head. I wasn't exactly sure how to deal with this pain and the only thing around me to distract myself with was the television that was blaring the Chinese version of the popular TV show, "The Voice." I had to surmise that everyone that entered into this competition had surprisingly sad back-stories, like severe anal bleeding as a child or a cruel encounter with a wombat, and that gave them a certain star appeal. It was certainly enough appeal that our masseuses paid more attention to the screen than they did to our feet.

After pulling my feet out of the water, the masseuse gently rubbed my feet,which I will admit felt rather good. Other than the occasional urge to laugh when she trickled her fingernails down the arch of my foot, she did a nice job.

"What services would you like to receive?" Nicholas chimed in from his neighbor bed. We were to be given three out of five services that night: A foot scraping (that Jake was currently participating in), a facial scrub, a hand treatment, an ear cleaning, or an eyelid cleaning. As enticing as it was to have someone stick their fingers into my ears or near my eyeballs, I opted for feet, face, and hands.

With a quick jump, the masseuse and her small dress were now on my bed and she had rested the fluffy pillow onto her lap. She sat cross-legged and motioned for me to lay down my head, basically right in between her thighs. Jake later mentioned that this was "the closest we had been to lady parts since birth." All the while I was having my face rubbed up and down, another man went to work on my feet. With a small headlamp that one might wear if they were going spelunking, the man took what looked to be some sort of dull razor and scraped away the dead skin on the bottom of my feet and between my toes. He looked to be some sort of explorer, searching beneath the crust of an ancient artifact, while I wriggled beneath a girl with her hands on my face as I stifled my laughter.

To add to my feet, the masseuses went out and brought in what appeared to be some sort of putty. "It's a mixture of ginger and crushed pearls." Nicholas told us. Pearls? Pearls? Huh, all of the sudden I was feeling like some kind of classy individual. That is, until my feet started to burn once they poured this mixture on. "Oh yes, it will start to burn your feet." Nicholas mentioned. Yes, yes it did. They had poured some sort of pearl concrete onto our feet where we sit and burn. I was starting to get the distinct impression that most Chinese medicine consisted of copious amounts of pain.

With my feet cleaned off, the real massage began. The masseuse hopped back up onto the bed and proceeded to set my legs on top of hers. This is the part of the massage I had actually been expecting, the part where a stranger rubs your body for an extended period of time and you tell yourself that everything feels better. Then I quickly reminded myself how Chinese medicine didn't work that way.

No sooner had she rubbed my legs had the masseuse moved onto my stomach. With force, she pressed both hands down hard into the area that would be where my bladder resides along with many other vital organs. I could only imagine the surprise of many other previous patrons that had experienced the same thing unprepared but with less bowel control. Oh, please let these sheets have been bleached...

"Would you like something to eat?" Nicholas chimed in through my stomach rub. Eating had been the last thing I had really expected after I had received a massage. Apparently, it was customary to try and include everything you could into one large package. I wonder if they also included dinner theatre? No, I think the farthest they would probably go is to include someone punching you in the spleen to deal with digestive health; as Chinese medicine does.

Songs For Your Bowels

Since living in China, I've had people at home ask me about my experiences living here. Thinking about it, one would usually hope to hear some story about a great cultural experience where I saw something that, "I'll never forget," or that "My life has been forever changed."

While I would like to tell them such things, I usually opt for a much different path:

My bowels.

Yes, when people ask me what is going on in China I tell them about my current bowel movements. Basically since living here, my GI tract has decided that it was no longer going to function at 100% ability and instead function at about, I'd say, 36%. All the plumbing is seriously jacked up.

Since I started spending an inordinate amount of time sitting down wishing I could just die instead of enduring the bathroom agony, I began thinking of inspiration or motivation. Purely, the motivation to try and get through your bowel movement that has quarantined you to the toilet seat. I figured that everyone in the world poops and that I'm not the only one who has had problems. I would even venture to say that everyone has, at one point, sat on a toilet for much longer than they desired to. With this in mind, I decided that the world needed a motivational playlist to get through this. This way, when you rest your hands on your head and wish that this moment in your life would cease to exist, you can listen to some tunes that will power you through...your dump.

1. Sweet Nothing (feat. Florence Welch) by Calvin Harris

Because maybe you've had sweet nothings for long enough. Yes, you GI tract. Please stop giving me sweet nothing.

2. Radioactive by Marina and The Diamonds

We all know that you've been in the bathroom for about a half hour. It's quite obvious that anyone else who wants to enter in the next 3 hours needs a hazmat suit.

3. Lonely Boy by The Black Keys

Just listen. Listen. This will help you when you're crying and realize that you--YOU are the lonely boy. Hopefully, you won't be alone for long.

4. Gimme More by Britney Spears

Gimme more! OoooOooo!

5. Mirror by Justin Timberlake

I can see you sitting there, looking at yourself in the mirror--CAUSE I DON'T WANNA LOSE YOU NOW, I'M LOOKIN' RIGHT AT THE OTHER HALF OF ME.

6. Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall

There definitely is some serious waterfall going on...

7.I Feel It All by Feist

You're feeling it all. Just...so many feels.

8.Die Young by Ke$ha

That's really all you're hoping for right now. You thought it was a good idea to eat that block of cheddar cheese. Boy, you were wrong...

9.Let's Have A Kiki by The Scissor Sisters

"I'm gonna let you have it--NOT" said the intestines.

So there you have it. A quick playlist that you can jam to and try and survive your short isolation from the real world while you enter the world of the porcelain throne. There isn't any rule that says you have to agree with me on any song in this list, I'm just trying to help. So put on your game face and step up to the plate. Because in the game of porcelain thrones, you win...or you die.

The Self Crusade

Self-image is always a weird thing for me. I wouldn't say that I have terribly low self-esteem or low self-image, but on a spectrum, I also wouldn't venture to say that I'm up at the top. What I consider the top, I consider, "Wow, look at my sculpted abs and biceps and tell me how pretty I am because I can cut diamonds on my gluts."...or something like that. Mostly, I would just say that I really don't have to be reminded of how I look very often unless I'm standing in front of a mirror trying to pop a zit.

Since I've moved to China, this is not the case. Upon arrival, there was some sort of magical wave I walked through when I left the airport that told everyone to stare. Stare at me. Just keep staring. Without shame.

At first, this was a little disconcerting. All I had to think in my head was, "They know. They know that I'm not from here and they hate me. They think I'm weird and am wondering why I even got on the plane in the first place." While some of that could be true (since I'm just speculating here), I've been informed a lot of the time that this stare is associated with pretty, handsome, good-looking, and maybe even exotic. Haha, me? Handsome, you say? I began taking this with the mindset that this was what you did when you met someone: you give them compliments."Oh, I really like the color of your shoes." "Your hair looks very nice today." "You look much better in jeans and a t-shirt than in an orange jumpsuit."

Over time though, I find myself beginning to think a little bit differently. This constant barrage or compliments has begun to inflate my ego. I find myself sitting on the bus, watching young teenage girls trying to take a picture of me discretely and thinking to myself, "You know what's going on."

Huh?

Who is that person talking? Where most places I would consider myself plain, they have started to give me fodder to flame a small ego into a bonfire. I've recently started watching an obscene amount of America's Next Top Model* and found myself thinking how vain a lot of these girls are. "Wow, these girls are so vain; deep as puddles, they are." Then I thought back to myself and how the kids in kindergarten had told me I looked "like a movie star." Then I sit there with a stupid grin on my face.

Part of me would like to sit here and soak up the flood of compliments that come in, but it only makes me wonder where this is coming from. Yes, I am concerned about the self-image of the Chinese people.

While a lot of Chinese do not actually believe that I'm American (brown skin, dark hair, brown eyes), sometimes they tell me that I look kind of like northern Chinese. "Don't worry, they are very beautiful!" They tell me if this subject is approached. I'm usually not worried when someone gives me a compliment, but it's the fact that they have to clarify that this specific Chinese people are "beautiful" or "pretty" or "handsome."

"This can only be due to a general lack of self-image in the Chinese culture itself," I concluded. Somehow, I must fix this or at least ensure some kind of self-worth in these people. I've overcome bad body image (somewhat) and I can do it to them to!

"You're handsome." They will say.

"No, YOU'RE handsome!" I will say to the old woman on the bus.

I can hear now of all the ballads they will play after I leave their country. How I transformed every person into a proud creature who had some pride in their heritage. It would be me who led the "March of Self Image" down the streets of Zhengzhou where everyone could proudly say they were Chinese! Oh, what a glorious day that would be. I can only picture myself on a float, hoisted above the rest surveying my movement...

Then I find myself walking down the street, ready to start changing the world with a new positive attitude. I smile at the passersby while they stare with a rather blank expression. I pass children and then an old man where I hear a noise. A deep, guttural noise that sounds as if the phlegm he is trying to expel is connected to his very soul. Said phlegm then lands next to my right foot in a sad, yellow puddle, that slowly drips into the cracks where it will remain for the next few hours (possibly accompanied by others).

With my day spit upon, I walk down the street. Eventually, I get onto the bus where I'll sit down with a sour look on my face while I think to myself, "China can fix its own damn self-image problem."



*Don't judge, it's a fascinating show. Girls fighting over who gets to be prettiest doing ridiculous things to prove that they are "tougher than the rest." Someone always has a sob-story background and they all hate each other. The reality show fodder!

It's A Vlog, Yo'

So I never thought that I'd get out a camera to show people what I was doing. But after moving to China, people (*cough mother cough*) keep asking to see things. Since I don't want to be sending a superfluous amount of pictures of the internet, I decided to film myself. This time, I went to the store.

I just have to say: please excuse the shakiness of the camera and the excessive wind. Also, the fast filming, low voice, and close-ups of my face. Sometimes, I just get carried away and now I have this video baby. Who knows if it will become any kind of normal baby, but it has been birthed.

The Raptor

I'm not one to get sick, mostly because I hate it. Wow Ryan, what an astute observation because Nobody likes getting sick. Yes, but I especially don't like getting sick because every time I get sick, I usually refuse to acknowledge its existence and this can go one of two ways:

A) I get over my sickness faster because MIND OVER BODY (or any other weird mantras that you guys know)

or

B) I make my body weaker by continuously trying to do all the activities I've been doing for the past forever.

One time when I played high school water polo, I got disgustingly sick at our state playoffs. When I say disgustingly, this meant that I looked like death, had vomited in my mouth more than once that day, and had the general motivation of about 3 rocks. This is one of the few times that I actually acknowledged that I was ill after getting into a freezing cold pool and then was chased with a ball around said pool for about 2 hours. When I admitted defeat and told my coach, he gave me wonderful advice. "Just go hop in the shower and cough out the flem, then you'll be fine." Yes, because the flem is the only source of my entire ailment, why had I been so stupid.

I may or may not have thrown up in a couple of the drain pipes that day. But I did NOT sit out the game.

Well, today I think I might have been sick. Actually, yesterday is probably more accurate, but I still really refuse to acknowledge that this is happening.

Like many a great Chinese person, a friend of my roommate and I asked us to join him for dinner with some other teachers and administrators of schools in the area. OK, this means I have to talk just to try and impress them a little, right? WRONG.

In the middle of a sentence, my voice squeaked. Loud. What? Some kind of second puberty was going on and I was not OK with it.

"Well, at my university I study psyCHOLogy." again, another fluctuation. All of these men probably thought that I was getting very sentimental about my major since I wasn't able to talk about it with my voice not cracking. I sat there, frustrated with myself. I had not felt feverish in any way and this had come without warning. Body, what are you doing!? This open rebellion is not appreciated since I refuse to be sick.

Part of me thought that possibly I had been sick (even if I didn't want to admit it). It was really hard to tell the difference between humidity and having an above average body temperature.

Then, the part of my brain that refuses anything is wrong just said that this was the pollution. Yes, that was it, you were not yet used to the pollution here and for some reason that was affecting your...voice. Whatever, I'd take it.

I spent the rest of the meal carefully navigating through tones that I could say without sounding like a pre-teen at a new boy band concert (note to self: New Boy Band is a great name for a new boy band).

Eventually after a few errands, we ended up at home where I proceeded to try and hack up whatever was inside my mouth. Obviously, some type of troll had crawled up into my throat and was going to ruin my existence by diminishing my ability to speak English in a country where I don't even speak Chinese. I told myself that it would be better in the morning and life would suck a little less.

This morning started off with good and bad news. Bad news, my voice decided that it wanted a second go at puberty and was not cooperating. The good news was that my boss had cancelled our morning class so I would not have to yell at any children for at least 8 more hours.

I spent the morning gargling hot water, sitting underneath a hot shower, and yelling throughout our apartment to see what I could and could not say. 

"HA! BAH! HA HA HA HA! Blue JEAns..." Nope, that wasn't working. Words came out, but usually they only worked when I said them at a level that was not socially acceptable. Throughout all of this, I'm sure our new neighbors expected that we had let some sort of raptor live in our apartment while we were away.

"MRAW! RAAAAAAARH!"

This was getting annoying. I had children to scream English words at in only a few hours! It was at this point, Jake offered me some DayQuil. "It says decongestant." So I took the bottle and quickly took what I had decided was a good dose and tossed it back. Dear DayQuil, please bring my voice back.

The DayQuil gods smile on me today. Before I left for my class, the floodgates of my sinuses decided to release themselves and it was like I had eaten something that ate a lot of crack. I wasn't aware that much fluid could come out of my face and it was disgusting and exciting. How awake I was! Despite the fact my voice was still being stupid, I found the right tone once I had to yell loud English words at the children. 

"PAINT-ING! EAT-ING! DrAW-ing..." 

I'm almost through Puberty II: The Revenge.