Takes a Village

Ahhh. To be a Chinese child.

The fun starts right at birth when, instead of being burdened with diapers, Chinese babies are simply clothed in pants with a convenient slit in the buttocks region. In the pre-walking months, parents will simply dangle their child butt-down over the desired location. Once they're old enough to toddle around on their own, they can squat for themselves whenever nature calls. In addition to the toilet, the street, sidewalk, and local greenery are all fair game.

Kids in China also enjoy an elevated social status. Unlike American children, who are unwelcome in many restaurants and are often subjected to either looks of disgust and pointed comments, or awkward encounters with adults who are uncomfortable interacting with humans under twenty years of age, Chinese children are treated like national treasures. Everyone enjoys hanging out with and joking around with kids, from the hardened wannabe tough guy to groups of cliquey teenagers. On my last train ride, two college-aged boys spent a full hour speaking in squeaky voices pretending to be the popular cartoon character "Happy Lamb" in order to engage the interest of a stray child running around the car.

Happy Lamb

Children are also a regular fixture at most restaurants. Instead of being condescendingly handed a children's menu and crayons, Chinese children are expected to partake of "adult food", which, to their credit, they seem to enjoy immensely.

The only apparent downside to being a Chinese child is that physical punishment is freely embraced. Until recently, teachers were encouraged to hit their students for misbehavior or forgetting a lesson. Spankings and violent yankings are commonplace. And a popular discipline tactic appears to be an exaggerated bout of animated high-pitched scolding, seemingly intended more to shock and embarrass the miscreant than to impart any information. Moreover, this scolding can come from any nearby adult; it is not limited to the parents of the child in question.

These discipline tactics appear to be quite effective, as the children I have had the pleasure to interact with have all been quite spirited and fun, from the charismatic seven-year old who administered me an English test, to the boy who enjoyed wearing his baby sister's lingerie-type silk bib while using his plastic Transformer figure to wage war on unsuspecting adults.

This youngster also enjoyed standing on the roof of his house and urinating into the family courtyard, a hobby that I'm sure will win him points with the ladies when he gets older.

I have also learned a lot about fashion from observing Chinese children. If and when I ever have children of my own, I fully intend to dress them in this:

I am also fond of the ever-classy mother-daughter matching pajamas look.

Clearly my experience abroad will be put to good use in the future.

R.I.P.

It is with the deepest regret that I write to inform you that on the morning of September 13, 2009, "Jiminy", a friendly, music-loving Chinese cricket, passed away in a tragic shower accident. Affectionately called "Choo-choo" by those close to him, he overcame initial prejudices to become a treasured roommate and friend. Not a morning went by that he did not greet with with a cheerful song and upbeat attitude. He will be missed.

Jiminy

The common cricket enjoys an elevated status in many cultures. As insects go, it tends to be treated as one of the good guys. In the U.S., we are indoctrinated at a young age with classics such as "A Cricket in Times Square", and in the form of the unforgettable conscience of a certain wooden boy. In more recent years, a cricket stars as the high-pitched good luck charm of the eponymous heroine of the animated Disney feature, Mulan.

With these as my cricket role models, it's no wonder that my initial reaction to a cricket taking up residence in my bathroom was fairly positive. I was first made aware of his existence by an unusually resoundant chirping coming from the bathroom as I got ready for bed. I found it strangely soothing, and enjoyed my personal lullaby.

Over the next couple of days, I bragged about my new friend, and encouraged his singing by whistling in his general direction. (Turns out he's somewhat partial to the hit Korean song, "Nobody".）He gradually gained confidence, and his songs became louder and more frequent. And can you blame him? What musician doesn't love the acoustics of a tiled room?

But, inevitably, things started getting out of control. His songs were no longer limited to a few minutes at bedtime; they became endless oratorios worthy of a diva, and they started up at all hours. The other night I was rudely awakened at 2 am, and when I was finally able to fall asleep again an hour later, I dreamt of an angry cricket attacking me.

The last straw came yesterday, when he decided to move out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, taking up residence in a corner between some large furniture and the wall. Sneaky. I never realized how much the chirping of a cricket resembles the beeping of an alarm clock. High-pitched, insistent, perfectly-timed squeaks.

My friends have suggested various strategies to rid myself of my unwanted roomie. These have ranged from the bizarre ("get a loudspeaker and broadcast his song outside so that he can attract a mate and stop singing"), to the unpleasant ("squish him"), to the semi-practical ("catch him and sell him as a fighter").

Instead, I plan on adopting a hands-off policy. According to Wikipedia, crickets mate in late summer. That would be now. My only hope is that my little "friend" will realize that all of his musical wooing efforts are being wasted, since the only female in my room is me, and that he'll take his little show elsewhere.