We have a special houseguest this month, a teenager from China named Wenrui who happens to be our daughter’s classmate and friend.
In case you’re wondering, her name is pronounced “When-ray.” Like many Chinese students in the States, Wenrui has adopted an English name, “Valerie,” which she uses at school to minimize confusion and fuss, but we prefer to call her “Wenrui.” It seems more natural, even though our ignorance of the tonal nuances of Chinese probably means we’re butchering the pronunciation.
Living under a pseudonym is one of the smaller sacrifices Wenrui has made to pursue an education in the West. Her family still lives in China. The decision to educate her in the States has entailed all sorts of convulsions. Wenrui’s mother has been commuting between China and the U.S., running an export business from two continents; last fall, the grandparents relocated to the States for several months in order to take care of Wenrui, despite the fact that they don’t speak a word of English; the father is tied to their hometown, on account of his job.
It’s hard to imagine an American family splitting up like that and dedicating all of its resources — across three generations — to the education of one child. But I’ve been told it’s not unusual in China.
Education, family loyalty, and self-sacrifice are three of the highest values in Chinese culture, going all the way back to Confucius, the ancient sage whose moral philosophy has shaped Chinese life for two and a half thousand years.
In December, Wenrui’s mother ran into a visa problem that will keep her in China for a few more weeks. The question arose: what to do with the girl until the new visa was issued?
Her mother proposed finding a Chinese family for a homestay, but Wenrui had a different idea, even though it would mean yet another sacrifice: living day and night in an English-speaking world, rather than retreating to the comfort of her native tongue in the evenings.
This was consistent with the bravery and determination she demonstrated when she decided to switch from her first school in the States, on the grounds that there were too many Chinese students there, which meant she wasn’t practicing her English enough.
We’re delighted to have her. She’s a quiet, studious girl, just like Nina, and having two teenagers in the house isn’t much more trouble than having just one.
I’ve only been to China once, in 1987, when I spent a month there studying Chinese film and literature. This was two years before the Tiananmen Square protests, whose bloody legacy has shaped international perceptions of China to this day.
It was a fascinating time to be in China. The wounds of Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution were still very raw, especially among the artists and professors at the universities and film schools I visited.
One of the highlights of that trip was meeting a young filmmaker named Zhang Yimou, whose debut film, Red Sorghum, had just made a splash on the foreign film circuit. Red Sorghum’s reception within China was less enthusiastic; the film dealt with the violent modern history of the country, and the state censors were sensitive to the point of paranoia about any material that could be construed as a critique of the government, no matter how slight.
China is a very different country today. The shy young filmmaker we met, whose movies continued to run afoul of the censors, but whose international reputation nevertheless blossomed, is now something of a state treasure. Zhang Yimou was the creative force behind the opening and closing ceremonies of the 2008 summer Olympics in Beijing, which seemed to announce the arrival of China as a major superpower on the world stage.
Of course, my direct experience of China is now more than two decades old, — ancient history in a country hurtling forward at the speed of a bullet train. Not to mention the fact that, in the eyes of my daughter, and no doubt teenagers everywhere, I’m officially an old fuddy-duddy.
This has led to some interesting dinnertime conversations with Wenrui. My focus has been on China’s turbulent last few decades: the great trauma of the Mao years; the slow opening to the West; the human side of the country’s explosive economic growth.
Wenrui’s perspective is a little more down to earth. She wonders why I’m so interested in the negatives about her country. Some of the historical events I talk about are completely foreign to her, an indication of the different kinds of information available to an outsider versus an insider.
She’s a fascinating mix of old and new: a thoroughly modern girl whose study of calligraphy has led her to the sayings of Confucius; an international student whose family’s sacrifice speaks to her culture’s deepest traditions; and a state-of-the-art teenager who has been known to sneak off and watch Youtube videos of performances from “The Voice of China,” a televised singing competition modeled on NBC’s “The Voice.”
Wenrui showed us some of it on her laptop. It was amazingly familiar — the Chinese franchise of the show looks exactly like its American counterpart — and, at the same time, like a visit to Bizarro World.
We watched a dainty slip of a girl in a microdress and crazy high heels belt out a surreal rendition of James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” The crowd went berzerk for the song, just like American crowds do.
Apparently, that singer didn’t win the competition. According to Wenrui, some boring dude won, and has been crowned the new “Voice of China.”
The boring dude better enjoy it while it lasts. I have a sneaking suspicion that the real new voice of China — its true voice, the world-changing kind — sounds a lot like Wenrui.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 17 January 2013
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
