Chinese Medicine

I had serious pain in my right hip, lower back, and right groin muscle, so I decided to try getting a medical massage at the Chinese medicine hospital. It's a publicly-funded, provincial hospital that specializes in Chinese medicine, especially massage, acupuncture, orthopedics, and everything else you would normally find at a regular hospital. The only difference is that the doctors usually will use a combination of Western and Eastern medical practices.

The Chinese medicine hospital looks exactly like a normal hospital. Well, normal for China, I mean. When I walked in this afternoon, it was incredibly crowded. There were people everywhere; some were lined up to register for the next available doctor, some were lined up at the pharmacy, and the escalators were full of people. I first registered at the front desk, a necessary step for all incoming patients, and I was assigned a doctor in the massage department, Doctor Jian. I walked past the pharmacy on the way to the medical massage department and it smelled strongly of herbs. It reminded me of the smell of the herbal tea my Mom made me when I had a sore throat when I was little, Throat Coat.

I finally found the medical massage room near the orthopedics department. I looked at the receipt that the registration receptionist had given me. I was assigned a doctor in room 294. I walked into the room with about 40 people. The room was separated into 3 different cubicle-shaped sections with metal barriers (also reminiscent of cubicles in an office) that were waist-high, so you could see everyone and everything in the room. People of all ages, including infants, laid on tables being massages by doctors in dirty white coats with bloodstains spattered on the front. Some had exposed butts with acupuncture needles sticking out. I found Doctor Jian. He was in the middle of massaging someone, but said he would be right with me. I waited next to his computer, which was located to the side of that sectioned-off cubicle.  

When he was done with that patient, he came over to sit on a stool by his computer and I told him what was wrong. There was no sense of privacy, and I felt the stares on the back of my head as I told him. He had me lay down on the table while he moved my legs in different directions and asked me if I had been having stomachaches or diarrhea. When he put my legs into the butterfly groin stretch and I winced in pain, he said, "Ah” and had me get off the table.

I put my shoes back on, after the promptings of a blind masseuse. I think he could tell I'd taken my shoes off because my feet smelled. I didn't realize he was talking to me, and everyone started murmuring, "She doesn't understand." Then I realized he was blind and actually talking to me and exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so embarrassed!" (how Chinese people express embarrassed apologies, which is different than saying “I’m sorry,” which literally means “I let you down.” Unless you actually let someone down, you can say “I’m so embarrassed” to express an apology). I put my shoes back on.

Hannah Gets Ready for First Grade

            There is an outstanding, English-language private school in the suburbs of Nanjing that holds a test every year for incoming first-graders. If you get an A, you get a full scholarship to the school. If you get a B, you pay upwards of 80,000 yuan per year for your education. If you get a C, you get rejected from admission. My neighbor’s (Big Brother Guo and Big Sister Chongyang) 5-year old daughter, Hannah, is in kindergarten now and will sit for the test in May. They are preparing Hannah everyday for the test, since she needs to get a full scholarship to be able to attend. They've enlisted me to help her with the English section, and in exchange I get fed delicious food, tutoring in the Nanjing dialect, and enthusiastic participation in my research. While I was brushing my teeth this morning, it occurred to me that when Hannah grows up, she is going to look back on her childhood and think, "I've been preparing for tests for as long as I can remember..." 

Hannah and me outside my house

If Hannah doesn’t get into this private school, she’ll have to attend a public school. Since the public schools around Old Nanjing are not highly ranked in the city, her parents want her to go to a better school and therefore must first, pull some guanxi (find some connections) that can get her into the school, and second, pay huge amounts of money, both to the city government and to the school. They have been treating people at expensive hotel banquets, hoping that someone will be able to help them out. Getting Hannah into a good elementary school is key for her to be able to pass the high school entrance exam in 6 years, which is then imperative for her passing the college entrance exam, which is then imperative for her to get a job, and thus live a happy and fulfilling life. 

Big Brother says, “There’s nothing we can do about it. The population in China is just too large, you have to use your connections to get ahead. You asked me if I was feeling okay earlier? I looked tired and worn down? Well the reason is because we can’t find a person to help us get Hannah into a good school for next year. This family has a huge burden weighing on our hearts all day and all night. The pressure to get Hannah into a good elementary school is huge. Her entire future, her entire destiny depends on this.”

A Shower for the Masses

"You don't have public showers in America? But what if you don't have a shower in your house? But what if you don't have indoor heating in your house? But what if your shower breaks? That is so crazy..." – my roommate, shocked upon learning that my trip to the local shower house was my first such experience.

A couple days ago, I wrote a blog post about a typical day in the life of me during the winter. In the post, I talk about the torture of showering at home. One day during a run at the university track in the beginning of February, I wanted to cry I was so cold. When I came home and my roommate told me that it was -8 degrees Celsius (17 degrees Fahrenheit), I caved. I know 17 degrees might not sound cold, but try living in a house without heating for a couple months during the winter in Nanjing first, and then come back and we can talk.

I couldn't bring myself to go through the torture of showering at home. I said to myself, "Sarah, there are some things in life that are worth spending money on. And spending 10 yuan on a shower is something that you need right now." I know, I know you probably think I'm crazy because 10 yuan is less than $2. But it just goes against every fibre of my being to pay for something that I can do for free. But I packed up my backpack with shampoo and conditioner, grabbed my towel and clean clothes, and went to the public shower, a discovery that made the rest of my winter much more bearable. Lesson 29,452 learned from China: don't be so stubborn.

When it got cold enough after that day (usually around -6 to -4 degrees Celsius, or 21 to 25 degrees Fahrenheit), I would sometimes shower at the public shower house when I had time. I say public shower house because it is a group shower that is open to the public, but it is not funded by the state or by tax dollars. It is a private business that charges the men 8 yuan ($1.25) and women 10 yuan ($1.50) to shower, with other perks such as pedicures, exfoliating, skin peels, and foot massages, all for around 8 yuan. There are several shower houses within walking distance of my house, scattered throughout Old Nanjing, since the majority of residents lack either a shower or indoor heating.

The shower houses vary in quality and price: the cheapest ones, 7 yuan per shower for women, have only lukewarm water with low water pressure, while the 10 yuan showers provided hot water, shower shoes, and lockers. My shower house is tucked behind the neighborhood supermarket in a back alley, with an illuminated blue sign that reads "Shower for the Masses" (dazhong yushi).

Throughout the day, you can see people of all ages walking down the street in their pajamas with their hair wet, carrying a plastic tub with shampoo. Considering the sometimes fanatical attention that Chinese people give to staying warm, it still amazes and confuses me why Chinese women don't use hair dryers and Chinese people in general don't wear hats (older people will wear hats when it gets really cold, but generally, people in Nanjing don't wear hats and often make fun of me for wearing one).

The public shower house was also a good research experience. 3 things I learned about Chinese women while showering:

1.) They take incredibly long showers and wash their hair at least twice

2.) They brush their teeth and wear their glasses in the shower

3.) Body tattoos are a lot more popular among Chinese women than I previously assumed

The only drawback to the public shower was the expense and the fact that it takes longer: while a shower at home took 2 minutes with a total of 15 minutes max spent to get dressed and blow dry hair, the typical public shower house trip, however, took at least an hour, since I have to pack, walk there, unpack, get everything situated and whatnot, and walk back. That was partially my own fault because sometimes I would just stand in there and bask in the glory of being warm for a moment. Here is a typical experience at the public shower house:

I open the door to the shower house, and the big boss sitting behind the front desk gets this huge, crinkly smile on his face. His son recognizes me, and they immediately start asking me a bunch of questions: Have you eaten? Did you have class today? Where have you been recently? Were you cold today? How much money do you make?

They make fun of me for bringing my big backpack again. Between my American-style towel and various winter clothes, my backpack puffs out behind me, and makes me look like a nerdy school child. Every time I come in, they ask why I have such a large bag and don't seem to quite understand my feeble attempts at an explanation. The female shower attendant (ayi, which means "auntie", a term for service attendants, especially nannies, that was popularized during the Mao-era) is cooking dinner on a stovetop in a broom closet next to the lobby and it smells fragrant: certainly onions and garlic are involved. I pay for the shower and order an exfoliating treatment. They give me a small piece of metal the size of a popsicle stick to indicate that I've paid, and I push back the heavy, thick curtains to enter the women's locker room. 

Shen Jian- A Portrait of Life in Old Nanjing

Shen Jian is a shy, soft-spoken, and serious 42-year-old Old Nanjingese (laochengnanren) who speaks carefully and deliberately. He likes to talk politics with me after he's had a few drinks, especially about US-China relations, the global economy, and whether or not our two countries will be going to war anytime soon. He fervently insists that I tell people in the United States about the warm hospitality of the Chinese people and report that Chinese people are friendly and welcoming. In this way, he says, our two countries can have better a better bilateral relationship. He insists that even though the US government has a bad habit of bullying China, the Chinese people do not want to go to war and want peace more than anything.

Shen Jian's father, stepmother, and 96-year-old grandfather live a few houses down from me on Horse Drink Alley in Old Nanjing. His grandfather, father, stepmother, son, step-niece, him, and I often eat lunch together on Sundays. That is four generations of Shens all in one room. I also celebrated Christmas with his family.

Shen Jian's father, Shen Zhongqi, sits and chats about political economy with a neighbor in the alley across from his house, while the caged birds chirp behind them.

Celebrating Christmas with the Shens. From left to right: Katie, the step-niece, Shen Zhongqi, the father, James, the son, Grandpa Shen, the 96-year-old grandfather, and Yang Shuxia, the stepmother.

One of the many reasons why Shen Jian's perspective is very important because he lived in Old Nanjing for 30 years, but his immediate family now lives in a high-rise, so he has personally witnessed the differences between the two environments. When we chat, his 9-year old son, James, likes to sit at the table and listen intently, always trying to be as mature and adult-like as possible by contributing to the conversation whenever he can. It's very cute.

James playing across the alley from his house

Map of his house:

Mapping domestic spaces can give you guys an illustration of daily life. Maps can represent many facets of society and culture, including separations of clean and dirty (toilet is in the kitchen), relationships between generations, and extended kinship ties. Notice that they have a toilet, but no shower. Most houses have one or the other. 

Katie and a neighborhood friend playing in front of the Shen residence.

Uncle Shen is pictured in the center, holding the bowl and chopsticks. His 96-year-old grandfather is on the right, his bed in the background (see domestic space map).

Here is his story, told in his own words: 

My name is Shen Jian, but you can call me Uncle Shen. I was born in 1969. My birthplace and hometown is Old Nanjing. I lived in this very house with my parents and grandparents for 30 years, from the day I was born until I got married about 12 years ago.

The most beautiful memory I have from my childhood was spending time with my parents when they came back home once a week. My grandparents raised me, you know, because my parents worked in a town far away from Nanjing. That town is several kilometers away; you can probably get there in less than 2 hours by bus nowadays, but during that time, we didn't have cars. There weren't any vehicles; we had no means of transportation. We didn't have busses or public transportation or highways or anything like that. You had to take the train. So it was a very happy time when my parents came home. Things were so different back then; the standard of living was significantly inferior than it is now, you know.

When I was a kid, reading books was my hobby. Life was so different then. Life was very monotonous and boring, not rich and abundant like it is now. Kids nowadays take dance classes and study English, but we didn't have such things, so I just read books. I loved reading books. 

A Day in the Life

A Day in the Life of Me (Winter version):

Some exciting developments in Old Nanjing have occurred during the past couple of days:

1. I turned on my refrigerator.  

2. I took a shower in my house without crying.

3. I put on sunscreen.

4. I worked on the computer without needing to stop to heat my frozen fingers on a hot water bottle. In fact, I've stopped using my hot water bottle.

5. I only wore 4 layers today (as opposed to my usual 12 layer combo) and even had to take one layer off while biking. I think I might have even felt the warmth of the sun on my face and saw the blue sky.

6. The smell of sewage is noticeably more pungent.

Does this mean that, after 3 months of ardent anticipation for the feeling that is called "warm", that spring is actually coming? I couldn't be more thrilled.

One important aspect of ethnography is to observe the changes of behaviour, habits, and life patterns that occur along with the change of the seasons. This is one reason why many ethnographers will live in their field site for at least a year. As Julian Murchison writes in his book Ethnography Essentials, a field manual that has served as my bible for the past 6 months, being able to observe a full calendar cycle is invaluable: "Having access to a full cycle of events (shaped by perhaps the calendar year or seasons) can be very important to many projects... A researcher who is not in a position to observe these temporal differences may not fully understand the larger circumstances and might mistakenly assume that one period like Pentecost or the dry season [or winter] is representative of general behaviour and life. Therefore, doing research for at least a year will allow you to see and experience the most representative range of your field sites"(Murchison 89). This was one of the many reasons I decided to move into Old Nanjing during the winter. Indeed, as I personally discovered, living in an old house in the winter is not a pleasant experience and I saw changes in the neighborhood: while doors were open and people were out walking and chatting on the street during autumn, doors were closed and people were grumpy in the winter. Chinese people also have some ingenious ideas about how to stay warm in the winter, including but not exclusive to wearing their thick, fleece padded pajamas with feather down coats at all times and avoiding the shower. Luckily, thanks to the 10-month Fulbright grant, I will be able to observe all four seasons in Old Nanjing.

Before winter officially comes to a close, I'd like to share a snapshot of "A Day in the Life of Sarah in Old Nanjing during the Winter." As the weather slowly warms up, my daily routines have already started to change, and I'm sure they'll change again with the heat and humidity of summer. This is a practice in the detailed storytelling of (auto) ethnography.  

I wake up around 7 am every morning to the sound of school children cursing and screaming the Nanjing dialect as they gather outside before the start of school (I live across the street from a junior high). It is kind of comforting, just hearing the kids laughing and talking, and I think to myself, "and that's China's future." It reminds me of my own days as a young student, when life revolved around the drama of classroom life: who liked whom that week and who was holding hands with whom that day. It reminds me, as I sleep under my cocoon of blankets in a pretend world of warmth and solitude, that the clock is still ticking, that time is still going, that the world is still turning. Instrumental music indicating a sense of urgency signals the start of the school day and the period changes every 50 minutes after that. During the day, people screaming into a microphone during periodic school assemblies pierce my thin walls.

I have to pee, but I don't want to leave my warm haven of three thick, heavy blankets, and lay there for an hour or two drifting in and out of sleep as Chinese pop music from Wang Xiaohong's thrift shop next door penetrates the morning din. Eventually I can't hold it any longer, and I get out of bed and put on my shoes. I grab my keys and several sheets of toilet paper and put them in my pocket. As I take the 4-minute walk to the public toilet, I field questions coming at me from all sides as I pass the neighbors: "Did you just get up? Are you cold? Have you eaten yet? Don't you have class today? Are you going to go out today?" I eventually make it to the toilet, and while squatting across the two rows of tiles that form a trough over a slanted tunnel system, a woman asks, "Hey, Beautiful Girl, what country are you from?" We have a short conversation about why I'm in China. After I'm finished, I see a friendly grandma and she asks rhetorically if my parents miss me a lot. I walk back with my neighbor Liu Baoyu, nicknamed "Auntie Fatty" (pang ayi... and no, I'm not joking. People actually call her that), who says she came looking for me to hang out last night but I wasn't home. We talk about how cold it is, and Auntie Fatty says that this year has been a particularly terrible winter. A grandma angrily scolds me for not wearing enough, yelling that I'm going to catch a cold. I show her that I'm bundled up to the point where I can barely move, but she furrows her brows and shakes her finger at me, telling me that I need to wear more.