China Daily recently published my column titled China Feels Truly Like Home With Chinese Green Card, where I shared my reflections after becoming a card holder. Here are some excerpts from the column, along with a video I made:
The new card in my hands glinted with promise, even under the muted fluorescent lighting of the entry-exit administration in Hangzhou. Printed with my name and, on the back, the words “People’s Republic of China Foreign Permanent Resident ID Card”, it was more than just extra identification. This little piece of plastic was the manifestation of a big dream.
China has always been close to my heart, especially since my husband Jun joined hands with me in the marriage registration office years ago in Shanghai. But it was only later, after the two of us had spent years in the United States, that we made a new vow: to live the rest of our lives in China.
…
My journey as a Chinese green card holder has just begun, and I still have more to learn to fully tap into the benefits. But for the moment, the thrill of the card has yet to fade. China always felt like home to me; now, with this new identity, it’s truly official.
It’s Christmas and I’m so behind on everything amid the sudden COVID-19 surge here in China, which has impacted our lives in many unexpected ways. Fortunately, Jun and I still have not caught COVID, and remain safe and healthy.
But I wanted to share with you this Christmas letter I started writing a few weeks ago. Even amid the surge, it still rings true.
Wishing you a safe, healthy and happy holiday, wherever you are.
A parade of Instagrammable Christmas decor lit up one of my online groups in the past week, with photos of artificial trees so perfect they could have starred in a Balsam Hill commercial.
One glance at the offerings from my virtual neighbors, who were even touting snaps of DIY Christmas ornaments straight out of Etsy, told me they probably wouldn’t deem our tree “camera ready”.
The tree in our living room, standing 5 feet (1.5 meters) high, was around half the size of those in the photos. Only the visually impaired would mistake it for a real one. The wires in the barebone branches were visible from across the room. This faux foliage couldn’t conceal the aggregate of wires forming its trunk, which looked more like a branch propped up by three plastic wedges. The decorations–from the golden star and words “Merry Christmas” to the assortment of Santa, bell, drum, gift and pinecone ornaments–looked like something on sale at the local dollar store. Indeed, years ago we bought the entire tree, including those ornaments, green and blue tinsel, and a janky string of colored lights, for the Chinese equivalent of $3.
It was nothing to envy.
Would anyone want to see a photo of it? They might laugh, just as Charlie Brown’s friends did when he took home the most pitiful tree on the lot for Christmas.
You may wonder why we’ve clung to a tree like this, when we could easily afford something the online Joneses would approve of.
But we don’t want another one. This is the Christmas tree equivalent of a war veteran. It has accompanied us through some of the darkest years of our lives, and remains a living testament to how far we’ve come, despite the challenges. Its humble appearance eschews the usual showy perfectionism of the season, instead urging us to hold fast to the things in life that matter far more than money.
I’m reminded of the wisdom the late Viktor Frankl shared in his seminal work “Man’s Search for Meaning”:
“…today’s society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness.”
I see our tree as an embodiment of that dignity Frankl writes about. There is value in simply having survived the vicissitudes of life, and coming out on the other side.
It took me a long, tearful time — involving a lot of processing — to realize the presence of this spiritual wealth in my own life. But now that I have, I want to embrace it in all its incarnations, including one unassuming $3 Christmas tree in my living room.
I want to dedicate this end-of-year message to anyone who has had a difficult year. I know what it’s like to be buffeted by the hardships of life, and so does that Christmas tree. We will continue to shine a light for all of you, hoping for brighter days in this holiday season and beyond.
It didn’t seem real. The brand-new Chinese green card, embossed with my name and photo, felt more like a figment of my imagination. I had dreamed of getting a card for years, and now was holding one in my hands.
Why do foreigners like me long for a Chinese green card (also known as the Chinese Foreign Permanent Residence ID card)? It replaces your visa and lasts for 10 years, liberating you from the annual bureaucratic hassle of visa renewals. It grants you the right to live and work freely in China, without depending on an employer for a visa and residence permit. You can enjoy the same rights as Chinese citizens in housing, education, investment and many more areas. And it clears the way for easier international travel, including when you enter and exit China.
If you’re married to a Chinese citizen, like me, you’re eligible to apply through the “Family” route, if you’ve been married and residing in China for at least five years (not leaving China more than 90 days per year during that period).
Taylor Swift fans have grown restless this fall as they await the October release of her forthcoming album “Midnight”. That makes this a perfect time to put Swift in the spotlight, through a music video of hers that cast a spell around the world (and here at WWAM BAM): “Willow”.
The video, dressed largely in a “prairie chic” reminiscent of a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel, follows Swift on an ethereal journey through a rabbit hole, enchanted forests, a carnival fair, a witch gathering, and cozy log cabins, as she traces a magical golden thread leading her straight to “the one”. The soft and subdued lighting — whether from candles, fireplaces, strings of lights, mystical orbs, or the golden thread itself — lends an intimate, crepuscular atmosphere to the video that fits the acoustic folk-infused sound of the love ballad. If only our dreams could be this beautiful.
But at WWAM BAM, we are also enchanted by Swift’s handsome co-star in the video: Taeok Lee, a Korean American man who, in fact, has history with the singer.
I listened to the dialogue, in Chinese, between my husband Jun and the hairdresser trimming my chestnut brown tresses. But even though I was fluent in Mandarin and could easily have responded to every question, I remained silent, resting in my chair while wearing a shy smile.
It was easy to appear abashed because I genuinely felt that way, wondering, What if they all really knew the truth? And every now and then Jun and I swapped knowing grins, in recognition of the success of our “performance” that very evening.
Once again, we played “foreigner and translator” for a captive audience — and nailed it.
“Foreigner and translator” are the roles my husband and I adopt for certain public situations in China, where I pretend to be just another outsider who can’t speak Chinese, and my husband the local providing language assistance.
While it might seem strange to engage in this subterfuge in a public place, like a hair salon, it has its benefits.
First of all, if people know we’re a couple, it immediately piques their curiosity, because they probably never saw a Western woman married to a Chinese man before. The surprise triggers a cascade of questions, including some that get intrusive — and which we’d rather avoid. “Foreigner and translator” helps us to sidestep a lot of awkwardness.
Plus, sometimes I just want to unwind — to savor the scalp massage and stylist’s work — instead of getting grilled about my life. So with Jun as “translator” I can just relax and be the “foreigner” enjoying the moment.
In the end, the haircut turned out perfect — one of the best I’ve had in years.
Before we walked out the door of the salon, I couldn’t help saying “Xie xie” — thank you — in Chinese, which once again sparked awe from our small audience, remarking how “good” my Chinese was.
Ah, if only you knew, I thought. If only you knew.
“I attended multiple going away parties in one week,” confessed a foreign coworker of mine not long ago.
After living in China for years, he had become accustomed to the annual wave of departures that invariably rippled across every expat social circle. But what was once a steady drip had now become a deluge.
It was sweeping up a lot of my friends too. Among them were people I’d pegged as China “lifers”–including a fellow foreign woman with a Chinese husband who had always seemed so happy about life in Shenzhen. But the death of a close family member, whose funeral she couldn’t attend, prompted a dramatic reshuffle of her priorities, leading her to pack up her life and say goodbye to China.
And yet, as foreigners flood out of the country, I’m one of the few going against the current. I’m staying here, and still committed to living in China for the rest of my life.
The group blog WWAM BAM just published my recent post titled The Sauna Days of Summer in China, a reflection on the extreme heat we’ve had to endure in recent weeks. Here’s an excerpt:
It was 2 pm on a sultry weekday afternoon when I left the refuge of our air-conditioned office to brave the heat with my colleagues. We wouldn’t have chosen to leave then, apart from the mandatory meeting we had. And even then, we did everything we could to avoid the elements, even opting to cross the grounds in the underground parking tunnels, instead of striding across that infernal square and its blinding white hot concrete that almost seared your eyes just staring at it.
Even so, once we emerged from the elevator into the shaded corridor, we were immediately buffeted by the waves of heat which rose, much like steam from an oven, from that square. It felt like a scene from Dante’s “Inferno” and yet it was no fictional account, but our summer reality on a day which delivered record temperatures and no relief in sight.
Once again, a mantle of gray clouds the heavens, which have been steadily “weeping” all day, dispelling thoughts of hiking or picnics.
Yes, we’ve entered southern China’s monsoon season, that time of year when the humidity reaches 100 percent under a curtain of rain as everything from hiking to even hanging laundry out to dry becomes impossible. And don’t even get me started about the mold that creeps into the corners of your rooms and closets indoors.
So how can you survive?
As someone who has experienced many years of monsoon seasons south of China’s Yangtze River, I would like to share some of the ways I’ve learned to adapt and even thrive:
Not everyone finds themselves happily ever after in love. Breakups, separations and divorces happen, and so does domestic violence or abuse, including to foreign women in China.
What do you do if you’re in China and facing domestic violence or abuse?
Since this question surfaces from time to time within the WWAM community — including in online discussions in which we’ve participated — we wanted to share some resources…
Head on over to WWAM BAM to read the full post — and if you like it, share it!
Here in China, we’re experiencing the worst nationwide COVID-19 outbreak ever since the pandemic began.
Of course, “worst” might be subjective for those of you who live in a country that has been continually ravaged by COVID-19 since the pandemic first swept across the globe.
As I write this post, in China we’re seeing around 1,500 to 2,000 new confirmed cases and over 2,000 asymptomatic ones across the nation per day. That’s in contrast to what previously used to count as a “severe” outbreak — around 100 to 200 confirmed cases daily nationwide.
What does it mean for those of us on the ground?
Head on over to WWAM BAM to read the full piece. And if you like it, share it!
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