It has been years since I’ve been in a school setting of any kind, and I’ve missed the excitement of learning and making progress toward a goal. I’m also curious about my System classmates, all young people my own age.
Our three morning classes are held in small classrooms furnished with dented, wooden chair-desk combos typically found in primary schools. Mr. Cheng is our character-writing teacher. He conducts our classes solely in Chinese, though our textbooks have an English translation next to the Chinese words.
Patrick, Ching-Ching, Sophia, and I lunch together in the massive cafeteria. We try to stay away from the chicken’s feet, pork, and organ delicacies. Stir-fried chicken or beef with some bok choy or fried lettuce, all swimming in oil and garlic, are the way to go. Food is so cheap, with a meal costing less than the equivalent of $1, even we can afford to eat here every day.
Our speaking teacher, Ms. Shin, speaks perfect English in a clear, singsong voice. She is very proper with her tight hair bun, blackboard pointer, and pin-straight posture.
Today we are learning the word “love,” spelled “ai” and pronounced “I,” with a sharp down tone. Ai ren = spouse; wo ai ni = I love you.
Sophia tries to make a sentence—“Zou ai.”
Ms. Shin’s stern expression shatters as she turns to the board to stifle a laugh. “Don’t say that,” she chokes.
When she refuses to tell us what it means, one of the other students leans over and whispers, “Make love.” Sophia is our hero.
I pour my energy into my language studies and thrive in the traditional classroom environment with a teacher and classmates. In America when I was twelve, many things were so difficult—Mom’s precarious emotional state, our tenuous living situation, and my own intense self-consciousness. So, it wasn’t until the end of the second quarter of eighth grade that I finally felt like I was getting a grip on things and started to enjoy learning. I love the feeling of seeing myself improve every day, like I did in Macau when I was self-teaching the high school curriculum. I didn’t realize I’d missed it.
After our morning classes, Ching-Ching and I return home for private Devotions, finish our homework copying Chinese characters, give Bible studies to interested Chinese students, and take turns cooking dinner and watching Nina and Jondy.
At the end of our first semester, Ms. Shin announces, “We are going to have a party for all the foreign students. It’s tradition that you all perform a song or a skit. Don’t forget to prepare something; you will be called onstage.” Ching-Ching, Sophia, and I glance at each other and roll our eyes.
“I think they just like seeing foreigners make fools of themselves,” I whisper. We’ve spent our childhoods performing together, so whipping up a song takes only a couple of hours of practice.
The party is at a club next to campus. When it’s our turn onstage, Ching-Ching taps her guitar—“One, two, three”—and Sophia and I belt out “Bai Lai La Bamba,” dancing the simple choreography. As we give our red neck scarves a final twirl over our heads under the flashing disco light, our classmates let loose a series of hoots and cheers.
Our delight with our success at the party wanes when the dean makes us perform for the entire university at every major school and cultural event. As the university’s performing foreign monkeys, we’re interviewed on local television and Chinese students call out our names from the dorm windows as we cross campus.
So much for being an inconspicuous Christian family.
Although we’re not living off the radar quite as we’d planned, it turns out that being a minor celebrity has its perks. My Chinese classmates insist on showing me around. They take me ballroom dancing, out to restaurants, and to underground theaters (students sitting on benches in a dark room with a large TV) that show the latest American movies for 25 cents.
I feel like I’m living in a Systemite teen movie: I carry around a little purse with spending money, which I earn with actual System jobs: modeling in Chinese commercials and teaching English to Tetra Pak executives. Normally, this wouldn’t be allowed, but since we must remain “undercover” here, we’re authorized to earn a living that doesn’t involve selling Family CDs or asking for donations. As it turns out, real work is more lucrative than canning.
As a Home, my parents, Ching-Ching, and I agree that we need to contribute only half of what we earn to the Home budget, and we can keep the rest for ourselves. I manage to keep about $100 a month, which means I can afford to go out to dinner with classmates and make choices without having to get permission for every tiny thing.
In class, Mr. Lee, my Chinese listening teacher, demonstrates how to say “Hong Kong’s joyous return to the Motherland” in Chinese. The British handover of Hong Kong back to China is only a month away, on July 1, 1997. Posters and signs are plastered all over the city, and a huge electric countdown clock has been ticking off the days for months. I raise my hand one afternoon and very carefully suggest that the people of Hong Kong might not be excited to return to China.
“Of course the Hong Kong people are ecstatic! How could they not be eager to throw off their colonial oppressors and return to Mother China?” is his shocked response.
Any other viewpoint on this one topic is beyond his comprehension. I realize then that even people who consider themselves forward-thinking, modern, and cynical about their political system and history can still have indoctrination so deep they just can’t see past it. I don’t press the matter.
I’m aware of how precarious our situation is here, even though we feel settled and are making friends. I hear clicking on the phone line that indicates our calls are being bugged, and when we receive letters, I can see where they’ve been hastily reglued. I don’t take it personally; the Chinese authorities monitor all foreigners.
Even under constant government surveillance, I’m enjoying a freedom and independence in China that I’ve never experienced before. And with the new craze of Internet cafés, I open my first Hotmail account and can communicate with people without everything having to pass through the Home Shepherds. Email solves two other problems: it’s much cheaper than international phone calls, and you can keep the same address when you move, which has always been a challenge in the Family, with our constantly changing addresses and phone numbers.
Mom purchases a new laptop with her earnings and gives me her old, gray Toshiba. My first computer. It’s two inches thick and weighs ten pounds, so it’s not exactly portable, but I’m grateful to be able to transcribe prophecies and type letters without having to use the Home computer each time and risk someone seeing my private files.
Mom arrives home late from the dean’s annual dinner for foreign teachers. She’s bubbling over with excitement. “You’ll never guess!” she nearly squeals. “My students got the third highest marks in the whole country on the English essay portion of the standardized test! The dean made a speech to congratulate me in front of all the teachers!”