I feel free here in Beijing, free in a way I rarely feel at home. Not in Scarsdale, not in Ithaca. I recognize the oxymoronic nature of the above statement by the way. I know public perception of China is one of iron fist communism- a country where its people are silenced and of children tucked away in back bedrooms. And while there is some truth to every stereotype, this freedom I feel has nothing to do with Chinese institutions, policy, or rule of law. It does, but it doesn’t. The freedom I feel comes from living in a developing country. It comes from running across a seven-lane street with my friends, knocking on a cab door in the middle of an intersection and motioning him to pull over. “70 kuai to get to Sanlitun? You must be joking! We’re students! 50 kuai. Okay. If you let 5 of us in the car we’ll give you 55”.
I come from a world where my friends will pull me up to the curb from the street as we wait for the light to change at an empty crossing. Recycling bags line the road every second Tuesday, and the guy selling water bottles on the corner of 62nd and 5th needs four different licenses from the municipal and state governments. It’s nice to have these comforts, but it’s also nice to feel a little human sometimes. A little erratic. Like there is elasticity to the institutions that surround you. “Traffic laws”. “Food and drug regulations”. This is the feeling of climbing up some enticing boulders in the middle of the Beijing Summer Palace Park and realizing there are no signs anywhere telling you that it’s not allowed. No park official ready to yell at you for daring to have some fun.
I just spent a whirlwind weekend in Shanghai- falling asleep at 6 AM and waking up a few hours later hungry for street noodles. I spent as much time on foot as I did with my feet on the pedals of a bike. The bike sharing system in China is not some “Citibike: $12 a day, please park at the appropriate stations and don’t leave your belongings unguarded” business. It’s a “spot three bikes lying on their sides and run like hell to claim them for $.15 the hour. An afterthought: I hope the tires aren’t popped”. We zipped around corners, swerving trucks and pedestrians, dinging our bells at anyone who dared to slow down for an intersection and rolling our eyes at the countless who rang their bells at us. A traffic cop stares us down as we screech to a halt at a giant crossing, but then once we surround him he flashes us a grin and shoots us a quick 你们是哪国人？ We ride on as I yell back in Mandarin, “Irish! Dutch! American!”
I would consider myself a square any day of the week. Breaking the rules makes my feet go numb for some reason. But it’s different here. I called my dad to talk about it. He knew the feeling; it’s why he loves Latin America. It’s living in limbo, where you give up some order but thrill is returned to you in spades. It brought back memories of my time as a summer camp counselor in the flatlands of Colombia. We did some crazy things at that camp: leaving live chickens to roam the bedroom of the messiest camper (discipline), waking up campers with firecrackers in the middle of the night (grit), riding a four-hour party bus through the dry grass to a campsite, kissing my girls goodnight in their tents and falling asleep on the ground with a bonfire blanket licking my feet (fun). These things that would be considered everything from childhood endangerment to sexual harassment in the litigious society I’m accustomed to, turned into one of the greatest experiences of my short life. This is life in countries where instinct actually plays a role in your everyday interactions.
This is not to say China lacks rule of law or efficient public services. Far from it. In some ways China is exceedingly by the book. I took the bus today and there were two government officials with flags at the bus stop, pointing me to my appropriate waiting spot. But then on my way back I stopped at a street food stall that turned off its lights and gas flame when a police car circled the block. Like I said, limbo.
So I talked to my dad, and he agreed that “getting away with it” is a great feeling. But he also opened the bittersweet floodgates. The actions I take and the treatment I receive will always be colored by the fact that I am a white foreigner. Whiteness means status, and it means I might get waved through some doors that others wouldn’t be. It’s special treatment that by definition is implicit. I can never know how else a Chinese person would have been treated in my place. I’m a card-carrying foreigner, and it’s crucial that I never forget it. Now I wonder if I’m doing things I’m not meant to be, and people are letting it happen just because I’m a foreigner. Little things bother me, like eating on the train. It hit me halfway through my egg pancake that no one else had food. Was that not allowed? People have waved me through with a look of exhaustion on their face- does it grate to have to explain the mundane details of this one social convention to the ignorant foreigner again and again? There is no race in the US or any other Western country that holds more unquestioned status than whiteness, which is why it’s difficult to conceptualize this idea if you’ve never left the country. We just don’t grant our foreigners that authority or respect.
Like those of most people, my experiences here are nuanced. My identity as a student does occasionally surpass my identity as a visitor. I’m aware that these elastic institutions I’ve found might accommodate me a little bit more than I deserve. It will take time to maturely digest everything I’ve seen and felt, but I safely pronounce, two months to the day of my arrival, damn. I’m going to miss it here.