"If you went running every day, you could lose some weight.” A maintenance worker with a receding hairline squinted at me as the elevator in our apartment building rose far too slowly. This was the first time I had ever interacted with this man. Unfortunately, he was speaking Cantonese, which meant that I understood him perfectly.
"Mmm…” I responded, avoiding his eyes.
"Really. If you ran every day, you could lose some weight,” he repeated, concerned that I had not given him a proper reply.
I flashed him a tight smile, but I did not trust myself to say anything else before he stepped out of the elevator. As I watched his stooped, retreating back, I tried to remember how I was considered "petite” and "tiny” by my American friends. But the US was, literally, half a world away.
When my husband and I moved to China in the summer of 2008, my body’s relative mass seemed to triple during the time it took us to cross the Pacific Ocean. From my first day living in the industrial city of Shenzhen, my weight was a favorite conversation topic of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. "You’re rather fat,” I would often hear. Or, "Did you gain weight? You look fatter.” If I stepped into a shop, sales clerks would rush forward, stopping my progress with wild gesticulations communicating that they had no merchandise remotely close to my size.
My figure was not the only thing wrong with me in the Middle Kingdom. I had grown up speaking Cantonese in the United States, but I knew barely any Mandarin. And judging by the reaction of the locals, my lack of language skills was by far my greater sin. Restaurant waitresses turned up their noses at me; grocery store cashiers clucked their tongues at me; taxi drivers quizzed me endlessly about my deficiency in Mandarin. My life in China at times felt like a series of one-act plays in which characters emerged with the sole purpose of telling me how stupid, fat, and just plain wrong I was.
"Ignore them,” my husband Ned, whose Turkish and Jewish roots had combined to make him look generically Caucasian, urged me.
"How can I?” I protested. "They’re everywhere.”
"But their opinions don’t matter. They don’t know you.”
That was the problem: they thought they knew me. I was a Chinese woman living in urban China, so knowing how to speak Mandarin was the minimum criterion for proving my sentience. It was equal to a blonde, blue-eyed woman in a cowboy hat and boots in rural Texas barely comprehending a word of English. It just wasn’t supposed to happen.
In exasperating contrast, the locals regarded Ned like a creature with magical properties. They were entranced by his height and broad shoulders, his light hair and green eyes, and they immediately set the bar for cultural competence at zero. All he had to do was say, "Ni hao,” and the same individuals who had been glaring at me as if I had insulted their ancestors as far back as the Tang Dynasty would glow with beatific smiles and tell Ned how amazing his Mandarin was. Ni hao was Ned’s universal password to obtain what would forever be denied to me: respect, attentive service, automatic entry into heavily guarded buildings, and a mysterious fount of Chinese joy and happiness that seemed to emerge only at the white man’s touch.
"He’s so handsome,” Chinese women would tell me, glancing at him through fluttering eyelashes. "Is he your boyfriend?”
"He’s my husband” was a Mandarin phrase I quickly learned to say.
Under the daily barrage of insults and sneers, my former life in the United States as an independent, competent, well-adjusted young woman began to recede from memory. It was as if that old version of me had never existed, as if I had always been the overweight, bumbling idiot that 1.3 billion people seemed to think I was.
I learned to wear an I-don’t-care-what-you-think expression on my face, but in reality, my defenses were only shadows of battlements. I felt as if I was constantly under siege; even the most innocuous encounter could become a surprise assault.
One day I greeted a deliveryman at the door of the office where Ned and I worked. I had done this several times before, and the routine was easy. All I had to do was say "Ni hao,” take the package, and sign for it.
But this time, when I handed the clipboard back to the deliveryman, he scrutinized my signature before eyeing me suspiciously. "Why don’t you have a Chinese signature?” he asked in Mandarin, a stony expression on his face.
"I’m American. I only have an English name.” I spoke slowly and gave him a small, apologetic smile.
"Why don’t you have a Chinese signature?” he repeated stubbornly, red blotches blooming across his forehead.
"I was born in the US I only have an English name,” I repeated just as stubbornly, all traces of the smile gone.
I didn’t understand any of the words he spat at me after that; he was speaking too fast and I was too shocked at his venomous tone. Knowing that I had just been deeply insulted, I refused to give him a response. We faced off in silence for a few tense moments before he turned on his heel, continuing to mutter vitriol under his breath as he walked away.
At that moment, learning Mandarin became my top priority. I contacted a company called New Concept Mandarin, which focused on teaching conversational survival Mandarin. They promptly responded, offering to send a company representative to my office the following day. When I told Ned about it, he asked to join in on the meeting to see if the classes were right for him as well.
The next afternoon, when I heard a knock at the office door, I jumped up from my desk. "I’ll get it,” I announced to the office in general.
Easing the door open, I called a cheery "Ni hao” into the dimly lit hallway. Then I froze.
"Ni hao,” responded the supermodel standing in the doorway.
I couldn’t stop the thought from entering my mind: If this woman isn’t from New Concept Mandarin, she must be a high-class prostitute. My eyes locked first on her dress, a body-hugging, black-and-white-striped mini that revealed every impeccable curve on her petite form. The shine of her straight, long black hair, which she casually tossed behind one shoulder, mesmerized me; her wide almond-shaped brown eyes, her thin upturned nose, and her closed-lip smile left me in awe.
As I stared at her, I remembered how I had barely brushed my hair that morning; how I had a grease stain on my blouse from lunch; how I had an angry zit on my forehead that was probably doubling in size at that very moment.
"Are you from New Concept Mandarin?” I asked in a squeaky voice.
"Yes,” the vision said confidently, with only a trace of a Chinese accent. "My name is Joanna.” She held out a tiny hand adorned by a French manicure.
Feeling oafish, I extended my sweaty, un-manicured hand and awkwardly shook hers. "Please come in.”
I shuffled to the conference table in the middle of the office, conscious that five pairs of eyes followed our progress. The room suddenly felt too open, too public. I didn’t want all my colleagues—and certainly not my husband—seeing what I saw: this epitome of Chinese beauty in juxtaposition with the ungainly, unkempt Chinese American who actually liked to eat.
I invited Joanna to sit in a black swivel chair. She descended gracefully into the seat and crossed her slender legs. I attempted to imitate her movements, but instead I had to steady myself on the armrests when I nearly missed my seat. Clearing my throat to hide my embarrassment, I asked Ned to join us.
As we waited, I tried to look into Joanna’s blemish-free face without flinching. "Are you from Shenzhen?” I asked casually.
"No.” She shook her head, her obsidian hair dancing in synchronized waves. "I come from Jianxi Province. And you? Where are you from?” She gave me another smile, her lips opening this time to show me two rows of unevenly spaced and slightly yellowed teeth.
At the sight, my shoulders relaxed a bit. Perhaps Joanna was human, after all.
I smiled widely, showing off my orthodontically perfected teeth. "I’m from California, in the US” As Ned eased into a seat next to me, I added, "This is my husband, Ned.”
"Nice to meet you,” he said, giving Joanna a neutral smile and shaking her hand briefly before turning his full attention to me, waiting for me to move the conversation forward.
I sent him a happy thank you with my eyes before asking Joanna to proceed.
She spent the next twenty minutes explaining the various classes that New Concept Mandarin offered. I tried hard to concentrate, but I kept marveling at her flawless figure and shining hair. Whenever I felt myself becoming overwhelmed with envy, I would angle my head to catch another glimpse of Joanna’s teeth.
Was she one of the teachers? I couldn’t resist asking.
She shook her head. No, her focus was recruitment and sales.
I began breathing a little easier.
As she neared the end of her presentation, Ned began tapping his foot, his mind wandering back to all the work he had to do. I hastily thanked Joanna and promised we would be in touch.
I had just returned from walking her to the door when Ana, a Chinese American colleague, bustled up to my desk. I only had to see the gleam in her eye to know that she was about to offer commentary about the impossibly gorgeous Mandarin program representative with the imperfect teeth.
"You know,” Ana began in a conspiratorial tone. Amanda, a Chinese national colleague from the freezing northern city of Harbin, looked up and leaned in to listen. "They probably thought you were a guy.”
I wasn’t quite sure where Ana was headed with that comment. "Well, my name is pretty unusual,” I hedged.
"That’s why they sent her.” She nodded in the direction of the door.
I glanced furtively behind me, as if Joanna might suddenly reappear in a blaze of light, accompanied by a full orchestral soundtrack. "You really think that’s why?”
"Oh, definitely,” Ana said. "To seduce you into signing up for their classes.”
Amanda made a small sound of dismay, the corners of her eyes turning down. I knew she was hurt by the accusation that a fellow Chinese woman would resort to such measures to make a sale, but even she couldn’t deny it. My eyes slid over to Ned, who was fully absorbed in his work and had clearly already forgotten what Joanna looked like.
One week later I signed up for New Concept Mandarin’s first level of Survival Mandarin. When Ana raised her eyebrows at my decision, I cited their excellent curriculum materials, the flexible class schedules, and the extra online training they offered. It didn’t hurt that Ned had decided to forego taking Mandarin classes and would never need to encounter Joanna again.
The Mandarin teacher for my one-on-one lessons was a young woman aptly named Sunny, who was generous with both her praise and her smiles. Unlike Joanna, Sunny wore simple blouses and skirts, no makeup, and a ponytail. Each week Sunny would marvel at how quickly I was learning and how good my pronunciation was. Thanks to my foundational knowledge in Cantonese, we flew through the curriculum.
Not only was my Mandarin improving, but so was my self-esteem. I could learn Mandarin, I assured myself, and I could find kind, genuine locals with whom to build relationships.
But a few weeks later, I entered the New Concept Mandarin office to find Joanna, in another body-hugging outfit and looking as manicured as ever, sitting in my classroom.
"Hello,” I said cautiously, trying to hide my surprise as I sat down across from her.
"Hi.” Joanna’s smile was strained, her voice bitter. "Sunny no longer works for us. So I’ll be your teacher now.”
"Oh, okay.” I tried to muster enthusiasm in my tone, but I was not particularly successful.
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. "She found another job at a TV station. A better-paying one.”
I murmured something unintelligible, unsure whether I should be offering congratulations or condolences.
"Sunny was a great teacher, but New Concept Mandarin doesn’t pay enough to keep people like her.” When I didn’t respond, Joanna gave me a hard look. "Don’t you think? Isn’t it worth it to pay more for good teachers?”
"Yes, sure.” At least I knew the right response to that question.
Joanna sighed heavily and shook her glowing tresses. "Let’s look at your last homework assignment.”
I squirmed in my seat, anxious about displaying my language inadequacies to a woman who outshone me in so many ways. That first class, our interactions were stilted, but we both plowed ahead, determined to fulfill our obligations.
As the weeks continued, I began to suspect that my stunningly beautiful Mandarin teacher was nowhere near as polished on the inside. In fact, she seemed lonely and even a bit miserable. I could never tell if it was calculated on her part or if it was just her way of making conversation, but she increasingly found ways to insert details about her personal life into our interactions during class.
"I have a two-year-old daughter,” she told me one day as we practiced Mandarin phrases for asking others about their family members.
"Really?” I exclaimed, my surprise immediately giving way to admiration. Given how amazing she looked, I would never have suspected she was a mother.
"Dui,” she confirmed, then switched to English. "But I don’t get to see her much.”
I nodded, thinking of Shenzhen’s many migrant workers who lived far from their children, most of whom were being raised by their grandparents.
"Her father won’t let me.” Her almond eyes flashed with anger.
Unsure how to respond, I remained silent.
With each sentence she spoke, Joanna’s life unfolded like a sordid soap opera. She and her husband had divorced soon after the baby was born. He and his mother had conspired to keep the child from her. Even now, when she went to visit, they would hide the young girl from her mother. They told the girl that this woman trying to see her wasn’t her mother but someone who was trying to snatch her away.
I was riveted, despite the fact that my expensive Mandarin class was devolving into an English-language therapy session. Each week, the proportion of English we used to communicate increased as Joanna recited her former mother-in-law’s most recent insults or relayed her latest efforts to get custody of her daughter.
I listened, made sympathetic noises, and occasionally glanced at my Mandarin textbook as a subtle reminder of our original purpose. The irony of our cultural exchange was not lost on me: Joanna regularly dominated our conversations and had limited personal boundaries; I, in turn, was resorting to subtle cues and indirect communication in hopes of helping her save face.
The one bright spot in Joanna’s life was her Australian boyfriend, a former student who promised to bring her to Australia one day. Her eyes alight, she told me how much kinder he was than her ex-husband and how he was trying to help her gain custody of her daughter.
I kept my expression neutral, but I had seen enough shady relationships between expatriate men and Chinese women in Shenzhen—usually involving promises of visas and marriage in exchange for sexual favors—to be deeply skeptical of the Australian man’s intentions. Whenever I heard Joanna talking to him on the phone, calling him "darling” and asking him what he wanted her to cook for dinner that night, I tried not to cringe. I was sure this relationship would end badly for her as soon as he decided to move back to Australia.
Toward the end of our second-to-last class, as Joanna wrapped up the weekly update on her drama-filled life, she looked me in the eye and said, "You’re really nice.”
"Uh, thanks.” I wasn’t sure how to take the compliment.
"You really are,” she emphasized. "Your smile is so kind and you always listen to me. You’re much nicer than other people in Shenzhen.”
I smiled at her. "Thanks. That’s very nice of you to say.”
Her words stayed with me as I took the subway home that evening. I couldn’t remember doing anything for Joanna beyond listening and offering her my sympathy—hardly actions that should generate such effusive praise. I wondered if her stunning beauty was actually a handicap that lured in treacherous men and caused other women to shun her. Perhaps this was why she had chosen to share intimate details of her life with a captive student who was just a stranger passing briefly through her life.
At the beginning of our last class together, I noticed a diamond ring on Joanna’s left hand. Unable to resist, I asked pointedly, "Is that a new ring?”
"Yes!” Her smile was electric as she showed off her sparkling rock. "Matt and I are engaged.”
"Congratulations!” I felt a burst of hope for her. Sketchy expats, as I liked to call them, didn’t usually invest in expensive jewelry to symbolize their empty promises.
"We’ll move to Australia when we get married.” A shadow crossed her flawless face. "I hope I can bring my daughter with me, but I’m not sure if I can.”
At the end of the class, we embraced stiffly. I congratulated her again and wished her well in her upcoming marriage. With one last brilliant smile and a toss of her perfect hair, she encouraged me to continue practicing my Mandarin.
As I rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the New Concept Mandarin office, I thought how Joanna had been the perfect foil to highlight many of my shortcomings: my poor language skills, my cultural incompetence, my imperfect complexion, and my waist that wasn’t as thin as I wanted it to be. But my impossibly beautiful Mandarin teacher with the crooked teeth and the sad almond eyes had also reminded me—in broad, bright strokes—what I did have: an adoring husband, an affectionate family, and an email inbox full of messages from friends living thousands of miles away.
The elevator reached the ground floor, warbled a weak chime, and opened its doors. As I walked through the lobby, the security guard in the lobby eyed me with disdain. I ignored him and stepped lightly onto the sidewalk, breathing in a measured cadence through the suffocating, smoggy night air.
Dorcas Cheng-Tozun is a writer, blogger, and editor whose personal essays and short stories have been published in Hong Kong, the UK, and the US. She is particularly passionate about telling true stories of the messiness and beauty of human connections, of sustainable social change, and of the unexpected ways in which we experience the sacred. She has written a full-length memoir about her experiences as a Chinese American living in the industrial city of Shenzhen, China, and is represented by Carrie Pestritto of Prospect Agency. www.chengtozun.com