Folk Art and Patriarchy in the Richest and Poorest Regions — A China Travelogue During the Spring Festival Part.1
Contrary to popular belief, more and more Chinese millennials and Gen Z decide to opt out of family reunions during the Spring Festival or Chinese New Year (one would be crucified by “misrepresenting” it as Lunar New Year in China) due to growing intolerance to paternalistic culture, particularly for single women, the pariah in the deeply patriarchal Asian society. Yet there’s a plethora of diverse, fascinating new year festivities celebrated across the country. Luckily, I was able to spend most of the family-oriented holiday traveling in February, living other people’s most exciting, sometimes too raucous moments of the year and dodging some fixed routines at home, including but not limited to late night mahjong and granny nagging on me and my younger cousins’ choice to be single and childfree.
A country-crossing trip that I thought would be a great escape turned out to be something more complex with mixed feelings.
My journey started from Shangri-La City, Yunnan Province. With the first ever railway of the region opening late last year, my friend and I were able to get to the utopian yet secluded Tibetan town from the nearest provincial capital via a 4.5-hour train ride. Despite the fact it’s renowned for sacred snow mountains under eternal sunshine and well-trodden alpine hiking trails, what drew us this time of the year was a unique crossdressing fiesta celebrated in one particular Tibetan village hidden in the Mekong River valley. Within two days, we hiked over a 15,000 feet snowy mountain range then descended into the valley where the lowest point is still 6,000 feet, and finally reached our destination, Yongzhi (Latin: Glung-vgre), a tiny village situated alongside the only road connecting the parallel-running Mekong River and Salween River.
We were greeted by the familiar smile of our old friend Kangzhu, who invited us to join his family for the celebration of the village’s fiesta. Starting out in the early 1990s, Kangzhu is a seasoned hiking guide in the Greater Meili Snow Mountains area and that’s how we got to know him through a mutual anthropologist friend. He’s also a multi-talented folk musician. Now in his 60s, the fit, lifelong explorer owns a roadside inn/diner and enjoys more domestic life, especially with two grandchildren around. Hot butter tea on one hand, and snow white khata scarves on the other, the whole family made us feel very welcome as always. The harsh winter days in the high mountains melted as we were served with boiling baijiu with chicken (Yes, you read it right) around a towering hearth in the family’s spacious living room, catching up with each other into the long nights.
Two days before the mysterious fiesta, we barely knew anything except it’s about honoring a guardian goddess of the village, who’s believed to reside in the snow mountain behind the village. There’s no picture or video, only snippets of conversation we had with Kangzhu a couple of years ago during one of our hiking trips. And a translated generic name meaning “the fiesta of Goddess” didn’t help much. Without knowledge of the Tibetan language, we couldn’t find any record of the folk cultural heritage on the Internet. I was intrigued because it’s supposed to be a rare occasion where male villagers put on female dresses, something defying everyday masculinity in a state where drag is virtually non-existent and the only publicly-accepted crossdressing is practiced by traditional opera actors. I was eager to see the ritual and how well such unorthodox gender expression sits with the indigenous male cohort.
Mystery was unveiled on the eighth day of the lunar new year as firecrackers broke the morning silence of the mountainous village. Kangzhu had a ceremonious outfit draped elegantly from head to toe, asking us if we wanted to dress like him with jingling jewelries, flashy Tibetan dagger and leather boots. I was so hyped that I almost said yes, ignoring the potential risk of cultural appropriation. I didn’t realize he’s joking until my friend gave me a nudge. I almost made a fool of myself, taking for granted that the ritual was for everyone, men dressing like women and vice versa, sounded fair? Apparently, it was NOT.
Following Kangzhu’s lead, we joined a mixture of local residents, the old, the middle-aged, the twentysomethings — all nicely-dressed men, and eventually a few teenage boys wearing makeup and Tibetan women’s brightly colored long dresses. The refreshing change was more than welcome. We were chatting, laughing, enjoying the elderly’s chant and young boys’ dance, and snapping photos and videos as the large group snaked through the narrow village paths. Thus I didn’t notice something’s off until all the guys flocked to visit a villager’s house nearby with my friend and I, two women from the outside world, tagging along at the end of the crowd. I found no local female participant among the group, NONE. Everyone that entered the host’s Tibetan style hefty wooden door was a man. One of the crossdressing boys stood by it, serving guests liquor from a jar, a task usually assigned to girls.
Of course, there’s women from the host family, usually grannies, being seated in the most prominent position of the house. The youth would kowtow to them, paying their sincere respects. Then the male host would offer fellow countrymen all sorts of snacks and pastries that were still warm (steamed buns are a must-have), exchanging new year wishes through songs and more drinks. We moved on to the next house with a repeat of firecrackers, alcohol, steam buns and Tibetan folk music. So far, things looked a bit unconventional, yet largely remained the same compared to Han people’s new year customs. I kept wondering where other women were. The wives, daughters, and sisters, where were they?
After moving to the third or fourth family’s house, the crowd split into two groups otherwise it would take a whole day to tour the entire village. We weren’t following Kangzhu this time because we thought it’d be more fun to stick with the younger guys. Then came the twist. One young guy grabbed everyone’s attention with the shocking news that my friend and I needed to “marry” someone single from the group, “It’s part of the ritual! Don’t worry, it’s just a game, like playing house.” as we were told. It’s further mansplained to us that the fiesta is also a day on which bachelors in the village are allowed to woo ladies in broad daylight, “Don’t be mad, or petty. It’s just for fun. Can’t you take a joke?”
Despite how manipulative it sounded, we were surrounded by a very friendly, blissful crowd. All the hosts showed us great hospitality, and no one seemed hostile. I still couldn’t fathom why wedding games were part of the ritual to celebrate the village’s guardian goddess. However, I could easily read the room that if I didn’t play along, I would be a prude, a party wrecker, and what’s worse was I wouldn’t be welcome at the fiesta any more. It might look like a parade that everybody could jump in, but it’s really not. We weren’t tourists either. The whole thing was more like an exclusive party and we were here courtesy of Kangzhu, alone in an isolated environment. The bone-chilling inkling was all too familiar to every woman (and man) who experienced sexual harassment.
In hindsight, I could’ve said no, or just left. But I didn’t, like many survivors. How bad could it be? I thought to myself. I even filmed my friend’s “wedding” with a villager, a chubby jester who got friendly with us through earlier festivities. Except for some playful, sexist slur like “She’s now my wife, no one else could touch her.” he’s totally fine. Did it make me uncomfortable? Yes. Was it verbal abuse? Not really. No red flag raised, at least nothing physical. Flanked by another bachelor and one crossdressing boy as the best man and bridesmaid, the “couple” jokingly tied the knot and ate more steamed buns in front of a small in-house Tibetan Buddhism shrine.
Then it’s my turn. And oddly enough, I kind of knew my “husband”, a man about my age who’s a cousin or second cousin of Kangzhu. When I first met him the day before at Kangzhu’s family dinner, he struck me as a polite, normal guy. Not in a million years would I have thought of marrying him the next day. But it was happening in the blink of an eye and I was having a panic attack.
Anyone who knows me to some extent is aware that I’ve distanced myself from marriage for decades. Instead of attending friends’ weddings, I sent them gifts. I wouldn’t judge their personal choice to side with patriarchy but I don’t want to be near it either. What if I started to denounce marriage then quit, people in the village would’ve thought I was a lunatic. Being excruciatingly uncomfortable and cornered, I quickly came up with an idea to deal with the conundrum — I asked the guy to marry into my family and take my last name as I jokingly bragged about owning a house in my hometown, a huge taboo to the majority of male population till this day. I refused to be objectified due to my sex, instead I tried to make the guy a woman. This was far from ideal but it’s the best I could manage under the circumstances.
To my surprise, my “man-wife” agreed to comply in a heartbeat. Much relieved, I gave him a friendly wink. And he’s such a good partner in crime. He even willingly covered his face with a towel and started fake-sobbing on my behalf when I was asked to wipe my fake tears with it like all brides did at traditional opposite-sex weddings (Brides need to fake-cry even at fake weddings!) It’s an obscene custom to exaggerate their grief of departing from their parents to practice patrilocal residence after getting married.
What’s more outrageous was I was handed a covered pillow disguised as a fake newborn in a wrap, and I was expected to hold it to prove I could be a caring mother — I almost dropped the damn thing like a hot potato after I learned what it meant. On the cusp of my mental breakdown, I passed the Frankenstein-ish pillow to my “man-wife” and the very symbol of humiliation straddled our knees the entire time when a senior recited some tantra for the wedding. The whole ceremony was about ten to fifteen minutes as laughter echoed around the room. Yet to me, every second was freaking eternity. I was too distraught that I didn’t recall anyone else accompanying me until I saw pictures of the wedding. There’s another slender boy in a girls’ dress sitting by my side, my “bridesmaid.”
This set of carefully orchestrated wedding rituals demonstrate how step by step women become embroiled in marriage, cut from their families, and reduced to walking wombs. It’s more like a horror movie than a rapturous ceremony. And just when I was glad the prank was finally over, I was ambushed during the visit to the next house by another guy who forced himself on me and left a peck on my cheek. No one stopped him, nor did I when a similar incident happened to my friend earlier. And people continued to laugh, “You can’t be mad at him. Relax.” I didn’t remember my reaction but after that my friend sensed my mood change. Although we kept our mouths shut while surrounded by a swarm of men, we looked at each other’s eyes and we knew what exactly happened to us that day.
Why didn’t we stop them? Strike that, why didn’t I stop them? I asked myself repeatedly. Was I such a coward? I’ve read, watched, fought fiercely for the #MeToo movement, and I was still ill-prepared when it happened to me. Suddenly I was gripped by shame and rage.
At this point, any curiosity regarding the cultural and social significance of crossdressing slipped my mind. Plus the boys who actually wore women’s dresses seemed too shy to talk about it, and I didn’t have a clue how to approach minors half of my age or younger. I was not in the right state of mind to continue the fiesta. Ironically, the last thing I remembered before excusing myself was a group of bachelors ranting about girls of their age migrating to towns and bigger cities, therefore how difficult it is for them to find wives, hence the wedding games. The issue makes headlines and trends daily on Chinese social media. After more than three decades of the polarizing one-child policy compounded by egregious female infanticide at birth due to the preference for boys, here we are and the worst is yet to come.
Following my early withdrawal, I received several friend requests on social media. I could tell who they are from their profile pictures and I talked to absolutely no one. No one’s innocent in it. I felt at home once I returned to Kangzhu’s and joined his daughter and daughter-in-law for tea, even though they had no idea what happened at the fiesta and I wouldn’t spill the tea. It’s very reassuring to be surrounded by women again. “Where are all the women?” I couldn’t help but ask. Truth was they were hiding on this specific day, bachelorette in particular. Young married women like them stayed away from the celebration as well. They probably assumed no man would touch us outsiders so they didn’t warn us beforehand.
So the self-proclaimed Fiesta of Goddess barely embraces women, and the young boys, lowest in the male hierarchy, get dressed like women as some form of tribute, I assume? The exact purpose or motive of their practice of crossdressing remains a myth. And no man seems to be able to answer my unspoken questions, which if I stay true to myself would be inevitably offensive, to the patriarchy they all benefit from/are oppressed by.
After a short break, the daughter-in-law resumed the endless drudgery of housework including cooking for the entire family, housekeeping, etc. She’s also been running her husband’s family-owned inn/diner almost 24x7 after quitting her previous job at a gas station a few years ago. I never heard complaints from her, yet I simply couldn’t stand aside while watching another woman work her fingers to the bone all day long. My friend and I lent her a hand in the kitchen several times during our stay, doing whatever we could to ease her toil. After all, we are women, and treated like women no matter how different we appear to be.
Though the first leg of my journey didn’t end on a high note as expected, I stayed hopeful because I got a fair understanding of the second leg that would bring me to a richer, better-developed coastal region 1,000 miles away. To celebrate the Spring Festival in Teoswa and Hakka fashion has been on my bucket list for a long time. Since the year of Dragon is culturally and historically dear to the Chinese, 2024 has set the stage for even more spectacular celebrations. It’s a once every twelve years chance I couldn’t miss.
Continue to read Part.2 here.
