Nanxiang Town

On Wednesday morning, June 4, I experienced for the first time, something close to what I dreamed of doing since I first became passionate about journalism. I went out into the real foreign world, on my own, and talked to real, live, people. Let me start from the very beginning–
 

The day I booked my flight to Shanghai, I knew I didn’t just want to do the school’s work as far as keeping up with the business students. That was my main priority, yes, but I didn’t want it to be all I did over the course of the month I was in China. After all, I had to work my rear-end off for this opportunity and I wasn’t going to let it go down easy. So during my first week here, I met with the special project supervisor, Lee Lǎoshī (Professor Lee) to discuss possible story angles I could work on while being in the country.

Lee Lǎoshī listened closely to what it was I was interested in: primarily the life of China’s migrant workers and more specifically, the women of those families. I didn’t know what would be offensive to say; perhaps “migrant worker” was something too controversial to talk about while you’re here in China. But Lǎoshī listened to me intently, and came up with a myriad of different suggestions. It seemed he had more ideas than I did, and I knew we were going to get along just fine.

The next day, I was set up to meet with a migrant worker family and two student translators at Nanxiang town – about a 45 minute subway ride away. This was an area where Lǎoshī used to buy hardware pieces from a shop where the man and his family were migrant workers, and he knew them well enough that they would talk to me. I had no idea what to expect, but I had no reservations either. I knew this was going to be the opportunity of a lifetime.

Fast forward to Wednesday morning – I wake up at 5 a.m., slip on my running shoes and hoodie, and walk to the East China Normal University track field where I blow off steam running laps. I’m trying to think of what today will be like and what I want out of it, but I just can’t stay focused. If you read my last blog post, you’ll understand why it’s been hard for me to get out of this travel haze I’ve been in – where the majority of the time I’m too exhausted to write anything, and I hate myself for not being on my workout routine like I was back home. Running laps on campus, surrounded by the elderly people of Shanghai, brought a little more edge to my blurred thoughts.

I jog back to the hotel – a glance at my watch told me I had exactly 35 minutes to shower, dress and pack my equipment. Just enough time, perfect.

7:00 a.m. - after getting everything in order, I grab a quick bite to eat at the complimentary hotel breakfast. Hardboiled egg in tea, soaked greens, and a fried rice cake with a shot of machine espresso. Grab my backpack, turn in my food tray, and I’m off to the subway station to catch line 4 and transfer to line 11.

As the line 11 train pulls up to my stop in Nanxiang, I exit the station and find my way to the bridge where I’m supposed to meet my translators and Lee Lǎoshī. It’s 8:00 – I’m half an hour early. I remember thinking I’m not sure how that happened, I thought I had timed everything perfectly. I get to the bridge, and just as I’m feeling a little out of place, I raise my head and see something every American dreams of seeing when encountering ambiguity. Consistency. I mean, Starbucks. There was a freaking Starbucks, sitting right smack-dab in the middle of worker-laden streets, all pristine and westernized. I shake my head and can't help but smile, realizing the sheer extent of the corporate company’s wingspan as I walk through the comforting doors of the coffee shop. I order a coffee and a muffin, hand over about 40 yuan, and take my seat at the window overlooking Nanxiang station. It’s one of those moments you have to look around and say, “Am I really here right now?”

At 8:30, I see Lǎoshī and two female students standing on the bridge. I walk over to them, introduce myself and learn that the two girls are both juniors at another nearby college. They both major in English; Lǎoshī thought this would be the perfect chance for them to practice. Elain and Vuchiey are their English names, and when I ask for their Chinese versions they give me the exact same reaction every Chinese person has thus far: a quiet deer-in-the-headlights look and a quick change of subject through mumbling and wide eyes. I don’t understand why it makes people uncomfortable to tell me their Chinese names but I would later have the chance to ask.

Elain and Vuchiey are wonderful – they’re open, friendly, non-conflicted when I ask controversial questions, and their English is pretty darn good. I also like that they’re invested; it would be easy to show up to this to help an American student and just do your bare minimum volunteer job. But these girls sit down with me and Lǎoshī, and they already have questions to be added to mine. They care about where the camera is and how much time we spend with each interviewee. They, like me, want to know more about migrant life, and how it affects the lives of the workers. I love it – and it’s got me pumped to get out there and get started. After a little under an hour getting a plan together, the three of us head out, and say our goodbyes to Lǎoshī. He heads back to the office, and we walk towards Nanxiang road.

The three of us walk the street together, conversing about typical small talk and getting to know each other better. Both girls are students working to graduate soon; they love English but they didn’t think they were very good at it. I tried to convince them otherwise but they were set in their minds. I asked about their families, their hopes for the future, and what kind of music they liked. They asked if I watched Gossip Girl, to which I had to disappoint them that I didn’t. Nonetheless, they giggled excitedly that I looked like Blake Lively’s character – a compliment I’ll take to heart even though any blonde hair blue-eyed American girl would probably look like Blake Lively in their eyes. Oh well, I can take a compliment.

The streets were relatively busy, people seemed to be going on with their daily lives as usual. It was similar to the busyness of inner city Shanghai with a little less dirt and a little less crowds. People bustled by hauling their business-on-bicycles, zoomed by on mopeds, and chattered passionately in a language I’ve only just begun to learn. The shops are small and crowded – they remind me of the hutongs we saw in Beijing, only less modern and a little calmer. The locals sit outside, sometimes on upside down paint buckets outside their shops. They might be doing some kind of handiwork as they sit there or smiling with their neighbors. Despite the bad rap this place got before I came here, I’m happily surprised to feel like the people are welcoming. Perhaps they simply want the American to buy out all their hardware stores and clothing boutiques, but people were generally very friendly with me.

Elain, Vuchiey and I finally arrive at our first destination. Mr. Huang’s shop is difficult to find, being nestled in amongst a school of shops, all squished into one block. It looks like a small closet off to the side of the road where there’s no door, only a bright blue sign in Chinese characters above the entryway. A glass desk and some stools line the small lobby, and Huang’s wife sits behind the counter.

I set up my camera equipment, tripod, lavalieres, the whole enchilada. Mrs. Huang seems comfortable enough – although I can tell she’s a tad distracted by any “customers” that waver in front of her shops door for a half a second. Once we start talking though, she’s all ears.

I desperately want to tell you about our conversation, and what it was like interviewing the Huang family and many others we found along the way. However… this post is already too long and I’m thinking it should be more a “to be continued” one anyways.

Besides, I have something in my back pocket I think you’ll like knowing a little bit down the road.

Trust me.