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I arrived in Changchun, desperate to reconnect with my hometown. But the first place my aunt wanted to take me was Wal-Mart.
Looking back, that wasn’t so odd. Just like it has for American college students, Wal-Mart has now become a thing to do for Chinese citizens.
Long ago, trees defined Changchun, which literally means “forever green.” Lush poplar, pine and willows lined the sides of the street, creating canopies of relief from the hot sun. State parks also decorated Changchun, serving as the unofficial convergence point of the city. Around noon, men dressed in sports jackets and ties chatted loudly and energetically with their friends, occasionally spitting out pieces of their lunch by accident. In the afternoons, rich mothers lazily strolled through the grass fields with their daughters, sometimes stopping to throw bread at the pond ducks.
But a couple years ago, corporate America bullied its way into the neighborhood. Now the parks and Poplars have been replaced, and a two-story Wal-Mart store stands as the most prominent building in Changchun. On both sides, Wal-Mart is bolstered by fellow western corporations: Revlon, McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken. These buildings, all covered with bright, colorful ads, rise so high they create the Changchun skyline. From a quick glance, you’d think the city ended there.
Amid that corporate exploitation, I felt at home. It was a strange and unexpected comfort, considering how foreign I felt in past visits to Changchun. For there is nothing that suggests Changchun was the city I was born in except my mother’s words — and a birth certificate that no one in my family can find.
Changchun is abrasive. Strangers collide with strangers. Cars do not yield to pedestrians, which seems appropriate — the city is known for its automobile industry. There is no small talk; everyone fends for his or herself. Beggars pack the streets, crying, dancing, banging their heads against the concrete road. Anything that will earn them some money. This coldness was intensified during my December visit, when the weather itself is so cold. It didn’t matter how many layers of clothing I wore, the chill hurt me at the bone. The winds were violent, blowing so fiercely it felt like knives sliding against my skin.
Each time I return, I am older, more understanding of words like “home,” “birth,” “roots.” Yet with each visit, I feel more foreign in Changchun — like a stranger whose body cannot permeate the walls of the city. I wear their clothes, speak their language, sip their tea. Regardless, they always know I’m a visitor. I will always be just a visitor.
The Wal-Mart building was narrow, tall, unlike the low, wide Wal-Mart buildings in America. The company’s distinctive white lettering was still there, although I hardly noticed. A corner of the large poster of Chinese pop stars that hung above the store’s name had fallen, covering some of the letters. The obnoxious yellow smiley face was unmistakable, however.
Petite, frail Chinese girls in oversized Santa costumes greeted me.
“Hi, welcam to Woll-Marr,” they said, in broken, mangled English.
“Xie, xie,” I replied, in broken, mangled Chinese.
At first, their greetings triggered no particular emotions in me. But as I wandered farther into the store, closer to the fast-talking shoppers, I felt perplexed. Why were the cashiers greeting Chinese customers in English?
In one aspect, the Chinese Wal-Mart is really no different than the Wal-Marts in America. The aisles are packed: cookies, DVDs, makeup, toys, yoga mats. Everything you don’t really need. And always low prices. Always. And in Changchun, these low prices erase any moral objections the Chinese people may have had about shopping there. Citizens of third-world countries can’t afford that type of integrity.
When you’re a non-Christian living in the American South, Christmas time can really test your sanity. Consequently, I decided to visit China in December, hoping to escape the Christmas madness that pervades my city. But to my surprise, I found that the Chinese celebrate Christmas with an intensity and passion you do not find, even in the most Christian of cities in America. Wreathes and tinsel covered the entire store — nothing was spared. Each aisle was monitored by a Chinese Santa Claus, most often a young girl, eager to tell you just how great each product in her aisle was. I took out the camera from my purse to take pictures, positive that no one would believe me without them. But just as I turned the camera on, the manager rushed toward me.
“Ay, ay, ay, no pictures!” He yelled.
“Just one, please,” I said, almost begging. “I want to show my friends.”
“Absolutely not!” He said, waving both hands at me.
My aunt grabbed my arm and started to lead me away.
“He’s afraid you’ll steal his display ideas,” she whispered.
I loved the pink dress with white polka dots the moment I saw it. It was 60 yen — not even 10 American dollars. I grabbed the XL off the rack, thankful they had my size so I would not have to ask for it in my Chinese. The clothes in China may be modeled after American fashion, but they are made for Chinese physiques. My frame is not considered “Chinese.” At 5’5” and 135 pounds, I am fat. Almost obese to the Chinese people.
We walked to the cashier and handed her the dress.
“You’re too fat to fit into this,” she said matter-of-factly.
My cheeks burned, and I swept my bangs across my eyes like that would somehow mask my embarrassment — an embarrassment I should not have felt. There was no meanness in the cashier’s voice … or her intentions. In her mind, she was just speaking the truth. Like Chinese children are raised to do.
Just as I began to formulate my response, my mother cut in.
“What’s it to you?” She demanded, “I’m paying.”
My mother has always represented everything Chinese to me. My childhood, a language I will never speak fluently, the ability to make perfectly flavored dumplings every time. Since I moved to America, she has been the Chinese weight at my feet, countering the millions of American balloons in my hand, desperate to take me away.
But in that moment, I realized my mother was stuck between two cultures too. Although she would never admit that to me. To admit that would be to concede — to suggest that it might be all right to forget my Chinese heritage.
Wal-Mart is not the only change to the city. The air is dirtier, the roads browner, and the sky grayer. Every morning, a gray sky full of clouds.
“Is the sky always gray? Or is today just foggy?” I asked my aunts.
They weren’t sure what I meant. Industrial pollution is as common and familiar as air to them.
I hesitated to ask more. America is already such an unattainable place for them. Why rub it in that the country has clear, blue skies?
Walking home, I fully understood why China makes such a good target for American investors and businesses. The Chinese are a desperate people — desperate to survive, desperate to feed their families, desperate to adopt and incorporate American culture.
“Would my haircut be considered cool in America?” A girl my age had asked me.
I stared for a long time at her over-processed hair, which was brushed back in a style reminiscent of the 80’s mullet.
“Uh huh,” I nodded. I did not have the heart to tell her the truth. That is not how America conditions her children.
We climbed the ten flights of stairs to my aunt’s apartment, and I was thankful to be inside, surrounded by her Chinese knitting needles, the stench of Chinese cabbage, Chinese everything. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my face, ready to fall asleep.
Moments later, my aunt sat down next to me, pulled the covers back.
“Rest up,” she whispered, “I’ll take you back tomorrow!”
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