Viewing entries tagged with "Chinese culture"   //
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A Note On Chinese Titles

2

Both my Tai Chi teach­ers eschew the title of “Master”, and pre­fer to be called by their first names. As I’ve had it explained to me, even the true mas­ters feel like they need a cou­ple extra life­times to com­pletely mas­ter Tai Chi. This is what my teach­ers com­pare them­selves to, so I sus­pect they feel it erro­neous to use the same title, even though they’ve been teach­ing for decades.

I find it very awk­ward. In Chinese, the word “Master” or “Sifu” implies a teacher, not nec­es­sar­ily a level of skill.

When I was young, I called my cousin by his Chinese name, because I thought it was insult­ing to address him by his rela­tional title of biu dai for “mater­nal younger male cousin” (or “mother’s sib­lings’ son who is younger than me”). I thought the “dai” part referred to some­one as “under”, the way “junior” could be used pejo­ra­tively in English. The thing I didn’t under­stand was that it was appro­pri­ate, per­haps even more appro­pri­ate than address­ing him by name. I’ve since become privy to the com­plex rules of Chinese names and titles, espe­cially rela­tional fam­ily ones.

As a kid, the first thing you’re sup­posed to do when enter­ing a house is greet every­one — adults most impor­tantly — by their title.

People con­tinue this tra­di­tion though, and even as par­ents, they’ll address their elders the same way. It’s a way of rec­og­niz­ing and respect­ing the roles in the fam­ily. Even though my Tai Chi teacher is Occidental, I feel com­pelled to address my teacher as “Master”, instead of “Mike”.

And it’s hard habit for me to break.

Date  August 6, 2007
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Categories  Random

Creatures Of Our Cultures

4

“One or sep­a­rate bills?”, the wait­ress asks us. She has a slight Japanese accent, but aside from her raven hair, her fea­tures are dis­tinctly Occidental.

“One please”.

“We’re treat­ing, Jeff”.

“Nope. You guys are in my town.”

“What does that have to do with any­thing?”, they ask, and threaten to leave if I pay. It does noth­ing to con­vince me or change my conviction.

“You guys are a lot more behaved than when I was your age”, says the man sit­ting next to us.

Thumbnail: Teppanyaki Flare 

When the bill comes around, we wrench the tray from each oth­ers hands.

“Must be odd”, the man whis­pers to his wife, who’s laugh­ing at us.

But it’s not odd to me. It’s the Chinese way. Like hav­ing too much food when you’re host­ing a party because to run out is the ulti­mate embarrassment.

To me, it’s odd when some­one doesn’t offer to pay.

The same way it’s odd to hear North American peo­ple com­plain about their jobs. To the Chinese, a job is how you take care of your fam­ily. It doesn’t mat­ter that it’s mind­less, stress­ful, or hard phys­i­cal labour. You’re just happy to have that oppor­tu­nity. All my Canadian Chinese friends feel the same1.

This is how we were raised. It wasn’t a rule that was spo­ken. We learned it by watch­ing our par­ents, who would clip coupons for gro­ceries, only buy clothes on sale, re-use paper by writ­ing over again with dif­fer­ent coloured inks, but go out to feast with ten peo­ple then fight to pay the bill. Sometimes, they’d even get up to find the server to make a pre­emp­tive, sur­rep­ti­tious pay­ment. Occasionally there were spilled drinks and soiled clothes, as the fight became phys­i­cal2. I think it’s nice part of the cul­ture to be so adamant about friend­ship and company.

And I’m glad to be a part of it.

  1. Aaron is prob­a­bly one of the few peo­ple I know who under­stands. He’ll fight with me, not just over a bill when eat­ing out, but for movies, gro­ceries, and other sun­dries. [↑]
  2. I remem­ber a child cry­ing once, a rel­a­tive of a rel­a­tive, think­ing the par­ents were argu­ing with anger. [↑]
Date  July 22, 2007
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Categories  Photos Thoughts

Rebel Son

7

Rana pulled me aside the other day and told me, I under­stand your cul­ture now. I under­stand your deci­sion.

She elab­o­rated on a woman at work who had sent her daugh­ter to live in China. It was soon after the baby was born, and the grand­mother assumed respon­si­bil­ity of par­ent. The mother never went to visit, only send­ing money for her upbringing.

That day, the grand­mother and grand­daugh­ter came to work, hav­ing flown into Canada to visit. No one at work had seen the child, two years old now. The whole time, she was ner­vous and shy, clutch­ing the leg of her grand­mother. When the mother tried to hold her, she wouldn’t budge, only cry­ing the rau­cous, uncon­trolled, unin­hib­ited tears of a child.

Rana told me this with sur­prise and con­fu­sion in her face. It was hard for her to believe that any­one could do this to their baby. I wish I could say that I was surprised.

This child was too young to know bias or bit­ter­ness. She only knew what she felt, a being of pure emo­tion. The woman who was sup­posed to be her mother was no closer than a stranger, and for the first time, Rana was exposed to this.

I’ve always con­fided in Rana about my own rela­tion­ship with my par­ents. She’s one of the few who really care, ask­ing me if there’s been any news on a reg­u­lar basis, espe­cially since I cut all ties. We never argue, but she’s never fully agreed with me. She always tried to give me a mater­nal per­spec­tive, being a mother of three her­self. I’ve admit­ted that I don’t under­stand what it means to be a par­ent, but that day, she real­ized that she never under­stood what it means to be a child of the Chinese culture.

It’s cold. It’s mate­r­ial. Most Chinese par­ents can only express their love with money.

In this way, my par­ents showed me that they loved me. They prob­a­bly think they did the best they could, but as a child of the North American cul­ture, I felt noth­ing. I never knew what it was to be loved.

And Rana said, You were the one who rebelled against this.

Date  November 6, 2006
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Categories  Thoughts

A Place To Stay

7

Thumbnail: Scratch sand 1

Thumbnail: Scratch sand 2

Gua sha, or sand scratch­ing, he calls it.

I’m already sob­bing. The cul­mi­na­tion of another week of stress and lack of sleep. One dis­ap­point­ment after another.

With the bowl of a porce­lain Chinese soup spoon, he scrapes the mus­cles along the back of my neck.

This causes rup­ture of the small sub-dermal cap­il­lar­ies (petechia) and may result in sub-cutaneous bruis­ing (ecchymosis).

According to Chinese med­ical prac­ti­tion­ers, the inter­nal tox­ins in the blood are released and cir­cu­la­tion is improved.

Before con­tin­u­ing down my shoul­ders, he rubs on some Vic’s VapoRub. It lubri­cates the process, cools the skin to ease the burn­ing dis­com­fort, a mix of east­ern and west­ern tech­niques. The patch he rubs turns a muddy mix of red and gar­net, and from this he tells me that I’m work­ing too hard. I have to look after myself bet­ter. Relax every day. Take an hour to exer­cise or walk. The first step to a healthy mind is a healthy body. The colour indi­cates that I have a lot of tox­ins built up in my body.

The darker it is, the more it’s sup­posed to hurt, but I feel nothing.

I take a sip from the mug that he hands me, full of pale yel­low liq­uid. It burns going down. Flavourless, but maybe that’s just the congestion.

“It’s spicy”, I mum­ble, no longer speak­ing Chinese. It’s too much on my mind. I need to express myself with­out limitations.

“It’s just ginger-water. If you can’t take it, you can add some sugar.”

I don’t reply. The unas­sum­ing con­sommé raises the inter­nal tem­per­a­ture, killing the sick air. To quell the spasms in my chest, I take slower, deeper breaths. It doesn’t work.

“I admire you, uncle. One day I hope to be a father like you.”

He breathes a short but heavy sigh. I can tell that these words pain him more than any­thing else I’ve said. He tells me, in Chinese, “Uncle doesn’t make a lot of money. I make sure I spend a lot of time at home”.

“I like you, uncle. I hope that no mat­ter what hap­pens, we can still be friends.”

“No mat­ter what hap­pens, you’ll always have a place to stay with us in Hong Kong.”

Date  October 6, 2006
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Categories  Daily Life Photos

A Bittersweet Comfort

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Thumbnail: BBQ pork
Thumbnail: Washing veggies
Thumbnail: Cutting onions
Thumbnail: Shiitake mushrooms
Thumbnail: Washed veggies
Thumbnail: Bone China bowls
Thumbnail: Soup close-up
Thumbnail: Soup extreme close-up

A bowl of egg-noodles, with bar­be­cue pork, shi­itake mush­rooms, shrimp, car­rots, bok choi, and green onions in a chicken broth, is con­sid­ered com­fort food for most Chinese peo­ple. They say that com­fort food soothes the mind by act­ing like an opi­ate, hit­ting the recep­tors in our cen­tral ner­vous sys­tem. We go to it in times of stress, and in addi­tion to keep­ing us full, it keeps us pacified.

As Pat and Jen cut, and wash, and cook, they never nib­ble. Everything that’s pre­pared goes into the pot. Not too long, or the veg­eta­bles will lose their firm­ness. With chop­sticks and a spoon, they serve the noo­dle soup in large bowls. One eats from the spoon, which is used to scoop the broth, while the chop­sticks are sim­ply used to put the desired ingre­di­ents on the for­mer utensil.

I don’t have meals like this any­more. Chinese food is a com­pli­cated affair. It takes a mot­ley set of ingre­di­ents, most of which is only avail­able on a sin­gle street in this city, so I’m grate­ful for a real home-cooked meal.

Everything about it brings me back to a time when I was a child, liv­ing with my par­ents, liv­ing off Chinese food every day. The con­trast­ing colours of the pork against the noo­dles. The full aroma. The savoury taste of broth. Even the dul­cet slurp of noodles.

If only my child­hood was worth remembering.

Date  July 24, 2006
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Categories  Daily Life Photos

This Is How They Love Me

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Thumbnail: Shirt and tie

With presents that come folded to per­fec­tion, boxed in white wrap­ping paper, and spe­cial wash­ing instruc­tions. This is the safest gift for some­one my age, unlike the guess­ing game that music, toys, or games has become.

This spe­cially processed, pure cot­ton fab­ric is designed for easy care and a crisp, con­fi­dent look that lasts. The soft­ness, absorbency and breatha­bil­ity of cot­ton, enhanced with inno­v­a­tive care fea­tures, ensure opti­mum wear­a­bil­ity. Engineered for no-fuss, express han­dling. Requires almost no iron­ing. Today’s quin­tes­sen­tial busi­ness shirt: time-saving, energy-saving, travel friendly.

We rec­om­mend using a mild deter­gent. Spin briefly, then hang to dry. Gently pull col­lar, cuffs and seams into shape. Touch up with a medium iron.

Not that I’m com­plain­ing. If it’s one thing my par­ents have been able to give me, it’s finan­cial free­dom. Never hav­ing to worry about how I’m going to pay for rent, or board, or edu­ca­tion. It’s not easy for Chinese par­ents to show affec­tion, an influ­ence of the cul­ture they grew up in, so they buy me things instead.

I’m the fam­ily pet.

The dog they can love and take care of and want around, but not have to actu­ally talk to or spend time with.

These are my treats.

Date  May 15, 2006
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Categories  Photos Random

No More Tea

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Thumbnail: Hong Kong milk tea with menu

Walking in, the first thing to notice is the aro­matic smell of freshly brewed tea that per­me­ates the air.

They wait on us using Cantonese with var­i­ous accents, an assort­ment of dialects from minor provinces. They rudely throw the dishes on the table, and tell me that I can’t take pic­tures of the menu. My par­ents com­plain to me about the ser­vice, about their main­land man­ners, and say that they’ll never come here again.

I slowly sip my tea, and leave before it’s half fin­ished. Even on a full stom­ach, I can feel myself get­ting uneasy.

The caf­feine is mak­ing me anx­ious, a sub­tle reminder of the panic attack I suf­fered last year.

It’s been six months since I’ve had a glass of authen­tic Hong Kong style milk tea. No more, I’ve decided.

Saturday morn­ings won’t be the same.

Date  April 22, 2006
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Categories  Daily Life Photos

Dim Sum

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Thumbnail: Dim sum 1

Thumbnail: Dim sum 2

Thumbnail: Dim sum 3

Outside it’s snow­ing, but inside it’s a clat­ter of carts and dishes. Dim sum is mostly seafood, espe­cially shrimp, but the most com­mon ingre­di­ents are oil and monosodium glutamate.

My par­ents go full out with the tripe and the phoenix talons (a euphemism for chicken’s feet), dishes that scare most Westerners, and even some Canadian born Chinese such as me. The dim sum here is much bet­ter here than at the restau­rant across the street, they note. The rice-flower skin of the shrimp dumplings is delight­fully smooth and thin, a demon­stra­tion of the chef’s skill. The mooli cakes, made from fried daikon radishes, taste espe­cially savoury. Even the buns are steamed well and slightly sweet.

The praise of my par­ents is a tes­ta­ment to the qual­ity of the food. They have the abil­ity to find fault with almost any­thing, the root of years of child­hood despon­dency and con­fi­dence issues, but today the food is nearly impeccable.

Date  December 4, 2005
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Categories  Daily Life Photos

Reishi

5

Thumbnail: Reishi closeup

Thumbnail: Reishi glass

Last week I was so sick that it felt like my brain was slowly leak­ing out of my head through my nose. I’ve had a jar of lingzhi, or pow­dered reishi mush­room, sit­ting on my kitchen counter for months, but I never felt like I was sick enough to have any until then. After one glass of “tea” and a night of decent sleep, I felt bet­ter than after any­thing else I tried. My sinuses cleared, my nose dried up, the headache at the back of my neck went away, and the only thing left was the scratch­i­ness in my throat.

I’d heard of lingzhi before, as my dad started drink­ing it daily a few years ago, but never really under­stood, or believed, it’s mag­i­cal prop­er­ties until now. As a child grow­ing up in a Chinese fam­ily, it’s not uncom­mon to be exposed to all sorts of eso­teric appendages and veg­e­ta­tion, but noth­ing was as revered as the reishi mush­room, not even gin­seng. It turns out that it has a his­tory as the old­est mush­room to be used in med­i­cine over 4000 years ago, and peas­ants were once exe­cuted for con­sum­ing such a valu­able resource as it was reserved exclu­sively for the emperor and his family.

As described in Wikipedia:

Lingzhi is anti-tumor, immunomod­u­lat­ing and immunother­a­peu­tic. It is also adap­to­genic, anti-allergin and anti-hypertensive due to the pres­ence of triter­penes. Apart from these prop­er­ties, lingzhi has also been found to be anti-inflammatory, anti-viral, anti-parasitic, anti-fungal, anti-diabetic, anti-hypotensive, and hepato­pro­tec­tive. It has also been found to inhibit platelet aggre­ga­tions, and to lower blood pres­sure, cho­les­terol and blood sugar.

It makes me quite proud to have such a sig­nif­i­cant sub­stance as a part of my cul­tural his­tory, a lit­tle secret known only to those lucky enough. Perhaps I may feel the same way about tiger penises some day.

The only down­side is the taste. I’m sure it’s noth­ing like eat­ing cock­roaches on Fear Factor, but it’s def­i­nitely a play on the palate that takes a bit of get­ting used to. The smell reminds me of the musty scent of old, dried, golden coloured lum­ber, that’s crumbly and falling apart. This comes as no sur­prise, as it only grows on the trunks of dead trees. Even though it comes in (clumpy) pow­der form, it doesn’t exactly dis­solve in water. At all. The pic­ture of the mug is after a good stir and five min­utes of set­tling. For some rea­son, half of it sinks and half of it floats. I tried to describe it to John, and the best I could come up with is that some­how it’s an entire glass of dregs.

Date  November 15, 2005
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Categories  Daily Life Photos
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