China – Clara Hsu

A Prohibited Meal

The only illegal act my father ever committed was taking the train from Hong Kong to China. He stayed there overnight. When he came back I tried to sniff the purported fragrance from his clothes. Not a trace could be detected. Years later when I went to Guangzhou I specifically asked to be taken to such a place, where at the show window the merchandise was lined up in a row, their bodies shiny (already cooked I suppose), hung by the necks, oil dripping down the little singed tails. They put the slices in a clay pot with daikon radishes and carrots, sizzling hot. Red meat, chewy, but it didn’t taste like chicken.

“Dog…” I said to my friend, “It’s not what it’s trumped up to be.”

He shrugged, “People are into wild vegetables these days.”

Photo from uncorneredmarket.com

Lantern Rhapsody

The magic of light encased, hanging down from the ceiling, or swinging on a long stick, flickering. The glimmer inside a paper fish’s belly, yellow star fruit, hairy rambutan. When I was small I pulled a little white curly crepe rabbit with four wooden wheels. A candle was lit inside, held by a thin wire. My sister and I walked up and down the length of the short corridor at home. She with a butterfly of transparent wings. We were the keepers of light, short legs toddling, gleeful and drooling, a kind of mythical youngling along with the shadows that cast on the walls and ceiling.

In Turkey there are congested galaxies. In Morocco you have to rub the painted glass three times (to clean away the dirt) before the genie appears. He has grown big and slightly stooped since the last time we met but he’s the same one, I’m sure of it.

Photo credit: Shutterstock

Soul Buying

Guqin, the seven-stringed Chinese zither was an instrument of the soul. A symbol of culture and refinement, the instrument appeared often in Chinese brush paintings: a hermit or a scholar playing the guqin next to a waterfall, under a tree or in the mountains. Sometimes it was carried on the back of a young boy–an assistant to the player. Unlike other musical instruments, the guqin was not used as entertainment, but a subtle way of communication between intimate friends.

All that has changed, according to David Wong, who has been going back to China to study with the masters. Guqin has become a fashionable trend and a symbol of culture for the rich. The demand sends the prices soaring not only because the makers see an opportunity to make money, but inexpensive guqins are deemed unworthy by the customers.

300,000 RMB (around $42,000) for the most supreme soul. But who does it speak to, and who is listening?

Bound Feet and Western Dress

Xu-Zhimo,-T — Xu Zhimo and Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore

After reading about the Chinese poet Xu Zhimo on my blog, my friend Diana offered me two books: Bound Feet and Western Dress by Pang-Mei Natasha Chang, and Agnes Smedley, The Life and Times of an American Radical by Janice and Stephen MacKinnon. Bound Feet was the story of the poet’s first wife and Agnes Smedley was at one time the poet’s lover. Apparently Pearl Buck also had an affair with him. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931. He was 34 years old.

Xu Zhimo was the Chinese Shelley. A proponent of free love, a worshiper of beauty, he was way ahead of his times. Bound Feet retold the struggles between ideology and tradition. But it was also about love and how it triumphed above all the conflicts. His family and friends, including his first wife, though hurt by his infidelity and irresponsibility, loved and respected him for who he was.

How modern are we, living in the 21st Century? What progress in freedom and tolerance for the arts has China made since the times of Xu Zhimo? In the news, a photo shows a parade of Chinese couples in tuxes and snow white bridal gowns. But to me the bandages of bound feet are still visible and the dress remains an illusion.

Foshan and the Hung-Sing Revival

Kungfu artists in China were persecuted as outlaws and revolutionaries toward the end of the Qing Dynasty (later part of 19th C). Many who had established their schools in Foshan, south China, fled to Hong Kong. Some eventually immigrated to the United States.

When my son was small, he took lessons with Sefu Dino of Hung-Sing Kuen (fist) at his Sunset studio. Sefu Dino (second generation grandmaster in San Francisco) wanted to find his Kungfu roots in China. After doing some research for him, we traveled to Foshan in 2000. The legends of the founder still reverberated in the ancestral temple, the alley ways, the tiny dwelling where he lived and died. A small group of Hung-Sing artists were active in teaching and preserving the sites. Sefu Dino and his new found colleagues worked out together. The fist style had changed with time and place, but as they showed off their moves, they were able to recognize many of the signature movements and fondly called each other brother.

Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan would trace their roots to Foshan. The smell of money was too pungent for the government and the movie industry to ignore. Since my visit, I heard Foshan was changing rapidly, surrendering its innocence and simplicity to the modern times. It is to be expected.

He Stands In Line

During the Duanwu festival (early June this year), the parents of my piano students offered me zongzi. They are traditional Chinese treats and most families still make these savory and sweet packets at home. Filled with sticky rice, meat or sweet bean paste, each zongzi is wrapped in lotus leaves and steamed to perfection. The other activity during this traditional holiday is the dragon boat race.

But the origin of this festival was tragic. Qu Yuan (340-278 BCE), poet and adviser to the king of Chu, was banished from the court and exiled. He committed suicide by throwing himself into the river. The common folks tried desperately to save him but to no avail. They rode their boats into the middle of the river banging gongs and drums to scare the fish. Some threw rice and meat into the water to prevent his body from being eaten.

Since Qu Yuan, many poets who held official positions had unpleasant endings. It is a strange contradiction. On the one hand, the government actively looked for the best minds by holding national examinations. On the other hand, the best minds they collected were often rejected and destroyed.

After spending over two months in jail, Chinese artist Ai Weiwei was finally released on June 22. His future is uncertain. His ability to speak his truth questionable. Now Ai stands in the long line of artists, poets, patriots and lovers. Like Qu Yuan, whose legacy is still being remembered today, Ai will go down in history long after the regimes are gone.

Photo by Tina Hager.

Romanze

Liu-Fang — Liu Fang. Click image to go to her site.

Risheng Wang was a research scientist living in Germany. On one of his trips to China he happened to listen to a cassette of pipa music. The playing literally touched his soul and he knew he had to find the artist, whose name was Liu Fang. He wrote to her, as a fan, but deep inside he knew he had fallen in love. The two met during Risheng’s subsequent visits to China. They married and moved to Canada. Risheng gave up his research and devoted his time in promoting Liu Fang’s music. I met the couple in 2001 at WOMEX, a world music conference in Rotterdam. Risheng told me this story. We are now friends on facebook. Have I told your story correctly, Risheng?

I was a closet poet when I first began writing. Eager to find a community, I happened upon an internet site where I could read other people’s work, post my own (be anonymous) and receive comments. After a lot of lurking I began to post and “befriended” a variety of characters. One in particular, judging by his poems, was a half-crazed Chinese poet called “Rain”. I had just finished a poem about a devastating experience in China and wanted to share it with him privately. We began corresponding one Sunday morning. He answered immediately, happy that someone valued his opinion. We emailed back and forth, finding concordance in each other’s point of view. The keyboard heated up. He proposed marriage. I told him he was too rash. Then we started arguing and everything went sour. By evening we had a divorce. Do I remember this correctly, Rain?

Photo credit: Sife Elamine