Episode 6: Why Can’t I Just Be Free?

In the year leading up to moving to China I had a recurring nightmare once a week, or so. In this dream I was casually walking down a crowded street in Shanghai with Grace and Will dawdling about just as if we were in the states. Out of the blue Willy disappeared. Panicked, I initially started to run after him, but realized I’d left Grace behind. Then I turned back to ask someone to look after Grace while I go to find Willy, but I couldn’t find anyone who understood English. So, I then decided to pick Grace up and run with her, but by then she was gone. The dream ended with me trying, in vain, to explain to anyone that would listen that I’d lost my children. No one understanding any English, though, I simply screamed out in frustration in a huge crowd of people. I’d then awake in a puddle of sweat.

Is this an omen?

***

Back home I never worried about letting my kids explore. So long as they held my hand while crossing the street, they were free to roam. When we were at the mall they’d scale the decorative rocks, if we were walking up stairs they’d spin around on the railings, if out to dinner and Rob and I were still eating, they were free to play under the table and dream. Willy usually ran from place to place, while Grace milled around day dreaming her way from place to place. So long as nobody got hurt or lost I was happy and they were happy.

But now, from the moment we left our apartment to the moment we returned I was in a state of panic. Those first few weeks just getting from the apartment to the car seemed life threatening. Upon leaving the building there was a U-shaped driveway that was always filled with parked cars and cars that were trying to maneuver around the parked cars. If we made it out of there alive, we were dumped out into a narrow street — with no sidewalk. Of course there were cars parked all along the side of the street, whether they were supposed to be there or not was irrelevant, which made the road even narrower than originally designed.

All that said it really wouldn’t have mattered if the cars that drove through the compound weren’t acting like they were vying for first place in the Grand Prix. Unfortunately, especially with the taxis, that was the case. Aside from the cars, even the people on bicycles and motor scooters were a threat by the way they darted in and out of parked cars with no regard for pedestrians.

In China, pedestrians do not have the right of way.

Those first few weeks I kept a white-knuckle grip on the kids’ hands just in case we had to make a quick move or change in direction. Even if we were on a sidewalk, I forced my claw-like grip on their hands with much protest -especially from Willy.

Willy is the kid at school who is doodling instead of listening. He’s the kid who walks on the curb like it’s a balance beam instead of walking on the sidewalk. He’s the kid who wears his shoes on the wrong feet and doesn’t notice.

To put it gently, he walks to the beat of his own drummer. I’d always embraced his free-spirited independence athome. Thought it was wonderful, in fact. It was a different story in Shanghai.

There were too many railings to climb up on and peek over and too many bridges to run ahead and look under. To hold my hand and walk at a reasonable pace was simply torture. The only problem — it wasn’t uncommon for a car to just appear, right there on the sidewalk, to avoid a traffic jam.

***

In the week after the Benny incident, which was the week leading up to the first day of school, I found myself in a constant state of anxious agitation. Every time a car whizzed by, barely missing us I’d fume with anger. Every time I stepped into our shared foyer and choked on the dust from my neighbor’s million dollar renovation (or was hit in the cheek by a shard of tile or tripped over a pile of wood scraps) my blood would boil. Every time I hit my head on the cabinets or the hood of the stove while cooking dinner I’d swear out loud, “FUCK!” whether my kids were in earshot or not. Every time some barefoot guy in threadbare white boxer shorts would hop onto the treadmill next to mine and light up a cigarette; I’d leave the gym in disgust — and eventually stopped going all together. And every time Kristin McBride, with whom the kids and I spent a few afternoons with to pass the time, tried to make a joke like, “Your kids have never seen High School Musical? I should call social services on you,” I’d let out my best fake laugh, bite my lower lip and wonder what the hell I was doing living in China.

As time passed, it became more and more evident to me that not only did I not fit in here, I didn’t belong here. My wild fantasies of expat life in Shanghai were a distant memory and real life in China was kicking my ass.

***

“Mommy! Mommy! Wake up!” Willy shouted, climbing on top of me, then onto Rob. “Daddy! It’s time!”

I rolled over in bed and peeked at the clock with one heavy eye. “Five-thirty…Buddy, it’s not time to wake up. You’re an hour early…where’s your sister?”

Just as I asked, Grace appeared in front of me fully dressed in her uniform, hair brushed, teeth brushed, back pack on. As I opened the other eye, I realized Willy, too was fully dressed and ready to go including the back pack.

“Guys, Guys, I know you’re excited for your first day of school, but it’s still really early…”

Robby cut me off, “Honey…losing battle. They’re way too excited. Let’s just get it goin.”

“Okay. You hop in the shower and I’ll get some breakfast going.”

Rob and I rolled out of bed and the kids ran to the table more than ready to start their first day of school.

Ah, the first day of school. I remember it well. Laying my clothes out the night before on floor as if there was an invisible mannequin laying there modeling the outfit. This isn’t a learned event, either. It’s just ingrained in people.

When I walked into their room to tuck them into bed and say the clothes diligently lay out on the floor, I smiled remembering my childhood excitement of going to the first day of school. A mixture of excitement, anticipation and nervousness all rolled into one humming, buzzing swirl in your stomach.

I was probably just as nervous and excited as they were. As I made pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast (ambitious, I know…by the time Halloween rolled around it was cold cereal and half a banana) my eyes welled with tears.

“What’s wong, Mommy?” Willy asked, hugging me around my hips. Even though he was five and starting Kindergarten, Willy still couldn’t pronounce his “R”s and “L”s. Rob and I joked about moving to China, wondering if he ever would learn.

“Oh, hey Honey, I’m just happy. You’re all grown up. I can’t believe you’re starting kindergarten today.”

He looked up at me with closed eyes and a beaming smile.

“I know. I’m vewy excited.” he said, opened his eyes then ran off out of sight. As Rob and I lounged at the table finishing breakfast and drinking coffee, Grace sat next us eagerly practicing her writing skills and grilling us about our first day of first grade. Willy reappeared, camouflage back pack still on, racing around on his scooter. ‘Round and ‘round the apartment he went like that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do in an apartment. By the time Grace finished the third degree; Willy finally stopped scootering and sat down to eat his breakfast. I just sat there in a dizzy daze.

Trying hard to keep the tears at bay, Rob and I guided our children to their bus stop. It was a mixture of emotions. Of course I was happy and proud, but also a little sad. The fact was that as they aged, I did too.

When we exited the elevator I said, “Hands, please,” and each child begrudgingly grabbed onto one of my hands.

Robby walked ahead and opened the door as the kids and I walked into the morning haze. In a matter of seconds Willy took off running, my hand left suspended in the air. Confused, I looked up as he sped down the ramp that leads to the street and instinctively ran after him, leaving Grace behind. Just before he reached the street, I stretched out my arm, grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him back toward me. He fell down on his bottom and then back to hit his head. Luckily, his back pack that was filled with all of his favorite stuffed animals flew up behind him and acted as a cushiony pillow to deflect the blow of hitting his head on the pavement. An instant later a taxi whizzed by like he was crossing the finish line of an imaginary race.

Out of sheer terror I grabbed his cherubic cheeks in my hands and yelled, “What the hell are you doing? You could’ve been killed!” As soon as the words left my tongue, and my eyes met his, both of our eyes welled with tears. Then he closed his eyes, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, he dropped his head back — nose to the sky, fists clenched and screamed the words, “Why can’t I just be fwee?”

***

Did I ruin him for life?

He was beyond excited and was simply acting out of instinct by running to the bus stop. It wasn’t his fault we uprooted him from the safe confines of an American suburb to the chaos of arguably the fastest growing city in the world. Worse, I was ashamed that he was clearly feeling the effects of life in China, but I’d been too self absorbed in my own personal drama to notice.

As the bus pulled out of sight, I looked at Rob with eyes laden in sadness and said, “Jesus life is hard here?”

He looked at me with an sympathetic smile, wrapped his arms around me tucking my head into his chest and said, “Really fuckin’ hard.”

***

Throughout the day Willy’s words echoed in the hollow melancholy of my mind: “Why can’t I just be free?”

Because you’ll get yourself killed.

Haunted by my five year old’s simple, yet profound question, I did some research on what it actually meant to be “free.” I learned that the notion of “freedom”, or “free will”, is divided into a variety of different philosophies.

Mind you, these are loose interpretations:

On one side of the philosophical spectrum are the libertarians (not to be confused with the political libertarian that I’m sure we’ll get to later in the book). They believe that people act on free will regardless of past experience or consequence. Meaning, they go with what feels right.

I’m pretty sure this is the “free” Willy was talking about. He was so excited for his first day of school that he just had to run and be free. Simple enough. Dangerous, but simple.

In the middle are the existentialists. They purport that people act on their own free will, but are guided by a set of values they’ve garnered over the years because there are consequences to actions — cause and effect. Those consequences, of course, can be physical (like getting run over by a taxi), spiritual, emotional or social aspects of one’s life.

Personally, I like the existentialists. I wish Willy’s mind that day was more existentialist: “I want to run to the bus stop, but — WAIT — there is a taxi going mach 5 down a very narrow thoroughfare. Maybe I should wait, or I could get squashed like a grape.”

And on the other side of the spectrum are the determinists. They believe that choices are made based on events that have occurred in the past, rather than free will.

I don’t like the determinists. Too robotic.

And then there’s Janis Joplin. She thought that, “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.” I think that might be libertarian, but I’m no philosopher.

I absorbed all of this information and distilled it into something I could understand. We were operating based on values and beliefs that worked in the past — in our own culture where we lived under the impression that we were free. What we needed to do was shift gears. Become one with China and the Chinese culture. After all, before I moved to China that is exactly what I thought we’d do. What I wanted to do. It’s just the unexpected, blinding madness of it all made me recoil into my apartment like I was a scared little turtle in the middle of an eight lane highway.

Erase the past and create the future.

The thought of becoming one with Chinese culture was absurd on so many levels I actually laughed out loud at myself while sitting at my desk still in my pajamas from the morning, even though it was now 2 PM. How the hell was I supposed to become one with China when I felt like I was the Greek character Sisyphus condemned to push a rock up a hill for the rest of my life? Once I got the rock up the hill, I simply watched it roll back down only to push it up again.

How the hell do I change the course of eternity?

I saw people around me who were happy; so I knew it was possible. Even the street sweepers were happy; just pushing their bamboo brooms, sweeping up cigarette butts and empty ramen noodle bags, laughing away and jokes I couldn’t understand. Their charming smiles, though toothless at times, shined through leathery sun-baked cheeks.

This must be because sweeping streets is all they know.

All I knew is that I was not only miserable, I was depressed. And from the looks of it, Willy was depressed, too. Grace was probably depressed, but it hadn’t manifested itself into a full-blown temper tantrum like Willy or full-blown exhaustion like mine.

It’s probably best I intervene before Grace goes to the dark side, too.

As for Robby, he was so wrapped up in his new job that he didn’t have time to think about anything other than work.

Over the course of the next few days I got down and dirty with China. The first thing I did was check out what it would cost to take Mandarin lessons. Becoming fluent, after all, was one of my goals. I figured no time like the present, until I realized it cost more than a year’s tuition at a state university for an intensive Mandarin course. So the second thing I did was crack open my Chinese-English dictionary and download podcasts from Chinese Pod. I frantically studied my numbers and time, days of the week and months of the year. I felt like I was back in Miss Fitzpatrick’s Spanish I class, right down to the unrelenting odor of cigarette smoke that lingered everywhere I went.

Xiao Li about shit herself one night on her way out the door when I busted out with an American-accent-less “Mingtian jian.” (“See you tomorrow.”)

Next, I planned a trip for the following weekend, with the help of Driver Jerry, to a beach that was situated about 30 km outside of Shanghai. It would mark the end of the kids’ first full week of school, plus it would be Labor Day in the states. Though we no longer got a day off for Labor Day, I still thought it would be nice to dig into China over a US holiday weekend — give a nod to the past, but play in the present. Also, clearly the kids needed to get out and spread their wings a bit. Playing at the beach would be the perfect remedy for the sense of entrapment they were feeling.

Then I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a haggard stranger staring back at me. I decided a spa day may not hurt. Since there were “spas” everywhere I turned — from the highest of the high end to the lowest of the low — I thought it might be fun to make a week of it. Facial one day, foot massage the next, etc. I’d try a local joint and expat joint and a five star hotel. Just to see if there was a difference, aside from price.

I enlisted Kristin McBride to accompany me on the spa week. She was a self-proclaimed “Spa Queen” and she was the only person I’d met in Shanghai, therefore, my only “friend.” And, as much as it pained me to admit, she wasn’t all that bad.

***

The fun is just beginning: The Price of Tea — Tales of an errant expat in China