on the place that i am in

a barber shop beneath an overpass

Last semester when I was at a literary festival in New York, I heard an author say that she was not able to truly write about America until she left America. Sometimes I wonder if that could be the case for me as well. I have been in China for a little over a month now, but the longer I have stayed here, the harder it has become for me to write about China.

Before I arrived in Shanghai, I think I had this certain “idea” of China from all of the documentaries I watched and news articles I read. On the plane headed to Pudong International Airport, I had my nose stuck inside The Economist for a large duration of the trip. “China’s Paradox of Prosperity” was the title of the issue, which had a new weekly section solely dedicated to China. I underlined and dog-eared articles I deemed epic, as if I were searching for some code that was hidden in the text. And I thought I had cracked that code, too. As flight UA-87 taxied to the terminal, I had come to a conclusion: China needed to be saved. But every day I feel that my imagined China is rapidly being revised. All of those words and phrases that I safely tucked into my mental pocket when I read about China—“rapid development,” “state capitalism,” “censorship,” “disparity”—are getting stale. I am beginning to grow tired of them.

On days when I don't have too many classes, I have gotten into the habit of wandering around the neighborhoods of Shanghai, camera in hand, with no destination in mind. And whenever I return back from these trips, I feel those economic terms and euphemisms begin to slip away and get replaced by images instead. Birds and building, dirt and concrete, highway and river, brick and clothesline. These are the elements upon which this city has been built. Sure, there is “rapid development” everywhere. But when you actually stand beneath a concrete and steel structure and look up, the term “rapid development” doesn’t seem so accurate anymore. You feel small, but at the same time you are in complete awe that something so huge can be built by human hands.

But maybe they are right, all of those people who write for The Economist or report for Planet Money. China is a country of paradox and disparity. But the paradox I see is the one between the China I saw in America and the China I see here, now. Before, China was just a landmass with a lot of people, with problems that could be solved if only given a healthy dose of American democracy. This is what I thought before. But now I realize how silly that sounds. China has shown me that I am no missionary, and it doesn’t need saving. China is a complicated country, and the longer I have been here, the more infatuated I have become with this place. I feel myself being absorbed into the concrete walls, the clotheslines, rivers, bikes, and air, and my idea of China is gradually getting rewritten. Who knows if after I return America, only then will I be able to truly write about China. But for now, I think I’ll let myself be absorbed into this place.