THINGS I CANNOT SAY

Sept. 7th, 2016

My notes are mostly positive. I have to write them this way: it’s a coping mechanism, a way to pretend that everything is not as difficult as it is. It keeps me sane, when I mess up a simple transaction at the grocery store, stand for long minutes in front of a McDonald’s and leave without ordering anything, get yelled at by a drunk man in Shanghai because I won’t give him some of my food. It’s a way to instill confidence in myself. Surprisingly enough, it’s working. But the thoughts and words I leave out are building up too, like some secret hidden journal in the back of my mind. In their own, passive-aggressive way, they demand to be written.

Here are the things I cannot say: that sometimes I cannot bring myself to leave my room. That on those days, I’ll stay inside and prop my computer on my knees and watch Netflix, pretending I’m not homesick and scared. That there are days where I miss meals, because I am too anxious to eat, go shopping, enter a restaurant. That I lurk at the edges of a crowd or a conversation, doing my best to read body language and mimic sounds, so that I can copy their behavior and maybe fake my way through a couple of social interactions. That, for a while, I walked more than two hours a day to the nearest Metro Station in Guangzhou, just because I didn't realize I could catch a bus five minutes away. That I am lonely as hell. That sometimes I put in my earbuds before entering a store and pretend I’m listening to music, so that nobody tries to talk to me. That I hate doing it, because I’m being rude. That even here there are times I wish I was white, because it would be a damn sight easier to be a white tourist than a single Chinese-American girl who speaks butchered Mandarin. That sometimes I lie to my hosts, when they ask, kind and concerned, if I am alright—I haven’t come out all day. “I’m fine,” I lie. I don’t want to burden them, make them worry. Even if all they worry about is a bad review on their AirBNB page. “I just have some studying to do.” In truth, I am usually reading American news, watching YouTube videos. Anything that makes me feel grounded, reassured, confident again. On those days, I can sum up all my feelings in one unspoken, fiercely desired thought: I want to go home.

Like I’ve said, though. It’s gotten better. Most days I’ve gone outside. In Guangzhou I started catching the bus. I had a long, extremely awkward, mostly funny conversation with a young employee in the mall, who was trying to explain to me the discount sale the shop had on clothes. I forgot how to say “I understand,” and by the time I finally remembered, three other employees were involved, there had been several demonstrations with calculators, and even some hasty Weibo translating. “我明白,” I finally blurted out, right in the middle of one girl’s sentence. “对不起！我明白.” My accent was atrocious, but I got the point across.

I’ve figured out how to order and pick up my train tickets. I’ve missed one train, after dragging my luggage for a good forty-five minutes in the pouring rain (actually, this happened about thirty minutes ago), and I’ve sprinted through a train station, the second-to-last to board with a minute to go. I’ve gotten extraordinarily lost in very confusing neighborhoods as dusk approaches, and I’ve caught the last bus back to my apartment. I spent a day walking through slightly wet streets and getting weird looks, and realized, when I finally got back home, that there were mud flecks all up and down the back of my calves. I’ve survived Huangshan on a national holiday (no small feat!), and all the stairs of Mount Qiyun. I’ve eaten some amazing food, mastered crossing a six-lane road without a crosswalk, and been to tourist areas and local spots alike. Most days I spend walking, eight hours or more, and it’s been so interesting to see the changes in neighborhoods, in people, in cities, depending on where I go. I’ve packed away my pride and shook out humility instead, and gratefulness: in Huangshan, my host waited to pick me up for three hours, after I got very turned around on the bus and had no cell service to boot.

So even though there are days where my anxiety is crippling, and I miss home badly, I’d still go on this trip again in a heartbeat. I have no idea what it might be teaching me—I’m too overwhelmed right now to try and parse it apart—but it's certainly something. Certainly, as a (very) passive observer, I’ve seen a lot, though nowhere near everything there is to see. And now, admittedly with both relief and trepidation, I’m on my last leg. 金华. Jinhua. My birth city.

I have a few vague ideas about what to expect, but really, I don’t know. It feels like there’s a lot more at stake. But at least I know that no matter what happens, I’ll make it through, just like I’ve made it through the rest of this trip. Maybe I was wrong, earlier, to say that I’ve packed away my pride; I’m damn proud that I’ve made it this far.

And I really, really hope I like Jinhua, and that it likes me.