social appropriateness

Every day is not a good day for me to speak Mandarin.

Today, in class, my teacher chose me to translate what he was saying. I didn't notice at first, because I was deep in thought, considering the nightmare I had last night. (When I get too hopeful in my life, I like to check myself with nightmares... about 50-year-old men replacing people who are not 50-year-old men, and about sinister elevators that independently decide to drop me from dizzying heights.)

When I realized he was waiting on me, and growing slightly impatient, I asked him to repeat the phrase. Something along the lines of "San si bei.." something. In Chinese, the word for "glass" (as in, drinking glass) sounds similar to the word for "hundred". Cup is "bei" (pronounced "bay") with first tone, hundred is "bai" (pronounced "bye") with third tone.

Struggling to translate, I got confused and said something along the lines of "340? No.. 3..4..hundred?" I was obviously not confident in my answer. I had the furrowed eyebrows, the questioning tone.

The rest of the class sat and waited, as you do when someone doesn't understand, waiting for the professor to say it more slowly, explain it, or turn to someone else.

"No," someone said. I turned to look at him. His tone was a mixture of things. Disgusted, as though I should know better. Irritable, as though I was wasting valuable time. Mildly shocked, as though the phrase was so easy that mistranslation would have been impossible for anyone else.

"Okay?" I said. He correctly translated the phrase. "Three or four cups."

Later, walking back from class, I tried to figure out if I felt regret over not studying for class yesterday. Whether maybe it was better not to look like an idiot.

Every day is not a good day for me to speak Mandarin. Yesterday I burst into Tyler's room, midday, and said, "I don't want to go to China." He looked up. "Okay," he said, "Sit down. Talk." So I talked. And I don't, I don't want to go to Beijing. Beijing is gray, and steel, and industrial, and gray. It is more than that, but not where I want to be. He looked at me. "You don't have to go to China," he said. "You don't have to take Chinese. You only have to do what you want to do."

I don't regret not studying Chinese then.

Last night, I rolled up my pant legs and took my bike and rode east to the Point, then north to the wharf, alongside the downtown, as I had done the day before. I watched as the city, first distant, small, and cloaked in fog got closer and then stood tall beside me, watched as the sun went down and the buildings lit up in billions of lights. No stars, but still a kind of urban night sky.

I watched joggers and bikers buzzing past me, with things like "Motorola" scrawled across their backsides. Young couples sitting at the rocks alongside the lake, the woman standing between the man's legs, her hands on his shoulders, saying something, pointing somewhere. Amateur photographers, some girls practicing a dance, a group of well-groomed businessmen strolling near the giant yacht stationed in the marina. I breathed in the smell of dead fish, eclipsing any city smell. I watched unruffled geese and ducks walk alongside the people.

And I rode back in the darkness, thinking of how the lake makes me feel calm like nothing else can. And getting back into my room, changing my clothes, and stretching, I felt the strength in my legs.

I don't regret not studying Chinese then.

Now I write.. and I don't regret not studying Chinese now.