Patriotism -- Chinese Style

National Day Vacation with my Future In-Laws

By Richard Baimbridge

"Can you say something in Chinese?" the young reporter from Guangzhou television asks, cornering me on the street. "Uhh, da jia hao!" I stammer, thinking to myself: You speak fluent Chinese and all you can come up with is 'Hi everybody?' "And what do you plan to do for next week's National Day holiday?" Again she'd stumped me. "Relax," I say. "Maybe go swimming."

Truth is, I hadn't given it much thought. National Day is the Chinese equivalent of July 4th -- the commemoration of the day when, 55 years ago, Chairman Mao presided over a crowd of 300,000 and raised the flag of the People's Republic of China over Tiananmen Square for the first time. In Orwellian terms, one could compare it to the day when Snowball took a brush and wrote "ANIMAL FARM" over the main gate. It's a time of joyful celebration here -- a weeklong holiday that consists of traveling, singing patriotic songs, and spending time with family.

For me, it's a time to feel even more alienated than usual. I'm not Chinese. I never will be. And I'm not very patriotic, even in my own country. Personally I'd rather face Abu Ghraib than have to sit and watch sports on television, and I'm even less enthusiastic about barbeques. Thus the 4th never held much for me.

Still, I felt a tinge of jealousy when my next-door neighbors (a young Chinese Christian couple) stopped by to tell me they'd be gone for the week, smiling and waving excitedly as the elevator doors closed behind them. And so when my girlfriend called last-minute to ask if I'd like to join her and her cousins on a holiday trip, I swallowed my anti-social tendencies and said, "I'd love to."

Minutes later I'm sliding into a brand-new six-seat Honda Odyssey with plush seats and surround-sound stereo. Guangzhou is one of the richest cities in China, and it shows in the contented smile of cousin Zhang, a successful businessman in his late-30s, and his family -- typical middle class Chinese wife and 13 year-old daughter -- all standing in the epicenter of a booming free market. They could be the poster-family for China's New Economy. Except for one small detail...me. I'm sitting in the backseat, reading Irvine Welsh's "The Acid House," listening to Macy Grey on the headphones, trying hard not to feel out of place. It's not easy 'cause I know that if the Zhang's actually WERE China's poster-family, I'd probably be airbrushed out of the picture.

Our first stop is a small town just outside of Guangzhou to pick up Gramma. In fact, she seems younger than most Chinese grandmothers, as she nimbly hops into a tight spot between eight other passengers, including small children and family friends.

Out on the highway, cousin Zhang is doing a solid 140 kmh, despite the heavy traffic and potholes, overtaking cars three lanes at a time with a quick flick of the headlights. Not a single person is wearing a seatbelt, and there's not a cop in sight. I hear the word "faguo ren" bouncing around, then Xue Jiao (my girlfriend) says, "No, Gramma. He's American, not French." In fact, the presence of a waiguo ren (foreigner) is not unprecedented in this family.

One of Gramma's daughters, I'm told, married a British guy and lives in the UK. Yet I'm starting to think Gramma doesn't care for me much, or is at the very least a little suspicious. Especially after Xue Jiao leans over and says, "She told me I should be careful because you might already have a family somewhere." Gramma eyes me warily as I assure her that I've never been married.

But the family has good reason to be suspicious. When her mother was pregnant, Xue Jiao's father (who is Chinese) confessed that he was already married with children, leaving her shattered and disgraced mother to raise her alone. In 25 years, Xue Jiao's only seen her father a few times, and rarely mentions him.

After two hours of driving through rural Guangdong province, we stop at a roadside restaurant that's owned by an associate of cousin Zhang. There's a river nearby, and I decide to go outside, leaving the grown-ups alone to talk business. An old peasant man emerges from around the bend, leading a flock of geese with a long bamboo pole. He looks like a time traveler who's just landed in another dimension. I take off my shoes and wade out into the water to greet him, soliciting warm smiles and an offer to take over the herd, which I accept, scattering honking geese up river. After a while, I look up and see that Xue Jiao's family has come over and is watching with great amusement, laughing and cheering me on. Just the sort of ice-breaker we all needed.

At dinner, we are the honored guests of the restaurant owner and a local government official. "Do you drink bai jiu?" cousin Zhang asks me, referring to the viciously strong Chinese grain alcohol. At first I say no. Then, sensing a cloud of disapproval from the men at the table, I quickly amend my answer to "Well, a little." "Yes, just a little," cousin Zhang agrees.

Two bottles of bai jiu later, the men are red-faced and bleary-eyed, though cheerful, as I toast to the People's Republic in honor of National Day. It's a cheesy, but effective way to bring the drinking to an end before something bad happens, like the time I got into a drunken wrestling match with a policeman in Inner Mongolia, kicked over a whole roasted goat and destroyed the host's living room. I've since learned to be more careful with bai jiu.

Finally we arrive at our destination -- a natural hot spring, purported to be the largest outdoor spa in the world. The landscaping is stunning, with dozens of pools carved out of natural stone, lined with lush tropical plants and connected by small wood bridges that are lit by colorful Chinese lanterns. Fireworks blaze across the night sky to mark the holiday. Perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, cousin Zhang and I begin to converse more freely. "America only has a history of 200 years," he says dismissively. "But China's history is more than 5,000 years old."

"Yeah? So why is it then that you still call yourselves a 'developing country?'" I reply, regretting the words as soon as they leave my lips.

"It's two different things," cousin Zhang fumbles. "One is culture, the other is economics."

In fact, we both know that calling China a "developing country" is just a face-saving way to explain why it's still far behind most western economies. Point out anything positive about China and people are quick to tell you it's a 5,000 year-old culture. Say something negative, and it suddenly reverts to a "developing country." Still, it's more than just a little impolite to question the economy of a person who is paying for your holiday.

I think about the great reformer Deng Xiao Peng, who said "It doesn't matter if the cat is black or white, as long as it catches the mouse." In other words, it's not important whether Chinese call themselves "communist" or "capitalist," because those are just labels. In fact, I disagree. Otherwise I wouldn't cringe every time cousin Zhang calls me "Charlie" instead of "Richard." But the larger point that I do appreciate in Deng's famous statement is that there are more important things than being correct.

It's midnight by the time we check into the hotel. Cousin Zhang stops by our room and tells us to rest a few minutes, then be ready to go out. This is what I love about Chinese people. Young and old, rich and poor, they like to party. By 2am, Gramma is wrapped in a table cloth to stay warm and cousin Zhang is at the bar, drinking more bai jiu with the boys, as the women are berating a clearly uninterested waitress for the slow service.

Driving home, cousin Zhang is well above the legal alcohol limit of most "developed" countries, yet aside from nearly taking out a few motorcycles, no one seems concerned.

"Do you know who these people are?" Xue Jiao asks me, and suddenly it occurs to me that I don't really have a clue. "This is my father's brother's wife," she says, pointing to Gramma. "And this is her son," she points to cousin Zhang. Apparently the family more or less adopted Xue Jiao after she moved from Beijing to Guangzhou, despite the fractured relationship with her father.

"Why are they being so nice to us?" I ask. "Because they assume we will be married," Xue Jiao says, "and that you will be taking care of me from now on." Suddenly the hospitality seems more like a sales pitch.

In the morning, we all assemble in the hotel lobby. Trying to maintain the playful mood of last night, I run up to Xue Jiao with a watermelon and place it to her stomach, rugby-style. She bows her head shamefully as the family looks on, horrified. "You must learn to behave according to Chinese culture," she scolds me. "It was just a watermelon," I meekly protest. "They think you're implying that I'm pregnant," Xue Jiao says.

By breakfast, the faux pas is forgotten. It's 11am and the restaurant is packed with people smoking, drinking bai jiu and eating roasted goose. China is a lot like America in the 1950's. Back when everyone smoked and drank -- when our wealth was endless, and our nation invincible. When we were still a "developing" country that had yet to regulate itself out of existence, and into a browbeaten state of self-imposed slavery, unable to piss outdoors for fear of lawsuits, insurance adjusters and credit checks.

Looking out at the happy families around me, I wonder if they realize how lucky they are? For the fortunate ones, like cousin Zhang, this is indeed a golden time in China's history. Though it's hard to say how long it will last.

Overall, my trip went as smoothly as one could hope for a trip with future in-laws to go -- whether they're from Guangzhou or Toledo. Though I know my family would be just as accepting of Xue Jiao, I think it takes far more courage for the Zhang's to accept a waiguo ren into their fold. And despite my supposed "western open-mindedness," they seem to deal with it all better than I do, myself.

Raising a glass of bai jiu to cousin Zhang, I toast "A thousand years to the People's Republic."

May they be happy ones.

* * * * *

Published on 10/25/04