Kristin Bair O'Keeffe: Writer. Mom. Teacher. Traveler.

Sunday Morning at Zhongshan Park in Shanghai

This morning it was two things that it hasn't been for a good while in Shanghai:

1. fairly warm (60 degrees or so)
2. sunny (FINALLY! YAY! YIPPEE!)

So as early as possible (about 9:30 a.m.), we packed up Tully, a ball, some treats, and other bits and pieces and headed to our favorite park in Shanghai: Zhongshan Park. Zhongshan Park is special for two important reasons:

1. You are allowed to play on the grass. (You are not in most parks here. Cops chase you off as soon as your big toe touches the first blade.)
2. There are NO bicycles or motorbikes allowed in the park so you don't have to be afraid of being run over.

Now if you've never been to a park in China, you might not know that parks are used for all kinds of recreational activities...not just hanging out in the grass or playing frisbee or taking a walk. In every park (well, every park I've been in) folks are dancing to music played on a CD player, doing tai chi, playing mah jong, singing with a microphone and speakers (um, rather loudly), playing cards, walking backwards, flying kites, and all kinds of other fun things. It's great.

But instead of telling you about it, take a look for yourself. I'm going to go take a nap.

These are the rules for visitors, posted at the entrance in English as well as in Chinese. Take special note of Rule #2, which states "Ethic and moral codes should be duly honored. Visitors are expected not to urinate or shit, post ads or posters, and write or carve around in the park..." (So noted. Today no one in our party urinated or shit in the park.)

This guy is writing Chinese characters in water with that long-handled brush.Cool, huh? Not sure what it says, but the writing is beautiful.

Doing tai chi with one stick on your head is impressive...

Doing tai chi with TWO sticks on your head is amazing.

Incredible.

A'singing & a'playing...

Have music, will travel.

Pretty, huh?

Mah jong, anyone?

The mah jong coach.

The knitting group examines a shawl.

Knitting on a rock in the sunshine. What could be better?

The carousel.

May I have this dance?

"Let's go fly a kite...up to the highest height..."

The rather cranky kite salesman. (Guess selling them just isn't as much fun as flying them.)

The Popcorn Man...makes it & sells it right there.

Like most kids in Shanghai, Tully loves Haibao (the mascot for the 2010 World Expo, opening here in Shanghai on May 1).

Sweet Tully relaxing on a rock.

THE END

Octopus For Lunch: Notes About My Daughter's English/Chinese School in Shanghai

A month or so ago, my two-year-old daughter started preschool at an English/Chinese school around the corner from our apartment. Her class--made up of Western kids, Chinese kids, and kids of mixed origins--has one American teacher (who speaks very good Chinese), one American teacher (who speaks decent Chinese), and one Chinese teacher/ayi (who speaks no English at all). As you can imagine, Tully is speaking Chinese better and more comfortably than  she was prior to starting school.

"Zai jian," she calls to the guard as we pass through the gate at school. Good-bye.

"Mei you," she says when I ask if she has something in her mouth. I don't have anything.

Every morning when we first arrive, each child has to visit the nurse who sits at a desk in the schoolyard. Now that she's learned the ropes, Tully trots right over, stands in line, holds still while the nurse takes her temperature, and opens her mouth and extends her hands for inspection when instructed to do so. All, of course, in Chinese. The nurse speaks very quickly and unless I ask her to slow down, I don't have a clue what she's saying to me in Mandarin. Tully? She gets it the first time around.

Though there is an administrator who speaks fluent English, the principal, the nurse, and all support staff of the school speak only Chinese. I love all the stuff Tully is learning/absorbing by being in a school with such diversity, but from time to time I come up against some challenging cultural differences.

Like at the Spring/Easter party. Guess what kind of candy was hidden in the play-yard for the toddlers to find and eat? Wrapped hard candy. You know, like sour balls. The perfect size hard candy to choke a running toddler. The kind of candy most parents back home in the U.S. wouldn't dream of passing out to a bunch of energetic, don't-hold-still-for-a-moment two-year-olds. Here? All the Chinese toddlers I know eat hard candy. (That day, I let Tully find the candy. Then I confiscated it. Then I made sure her teachers weren't allowing it in the classroom. They weren't.)

But perhaps most interestingly is the daily snack/lunch menu at school. Yesterday? Sweet and sour steak with fried basil. Today? Braised octopus.

I honestly have no idea what meat floss is (see Monday's menu), but from what the teachers said, none of the kids ate much of it.

The Far-Flung Writer: A Lesson in Submitting Your Work from Abroad

REALIZATION #1: A few days ago, I realized that I've got 5 or 6 (amazing, kick-ass, life-changing) unpublished essays/short stories just lying around my office that I've intended to submit to literary magazines, but haven't.

WHY HAVEN'T I SUBMITTED THESE ASS-KICKING ESSAYS & SHORT STORIES THAT ARE JUST LYING AROUND MY OFFICE?

• Like a lot of writing women, I'm a working mom with too many things to do and not enough hours in the day. Sitting at my computer, writing cover letters, reading the often super-detailed submission guidelines of dozens of lit magazines, printing copies of my work along with labels, and stuffing envelopes often falls right off my arm-length to-do list. Go figure.
  

• I'm trying like crazy to keep my first novel Thirsty moving. Marketing, connecting, sharing with readers, potential readers, book bloggers, etc. (Hey, that reminds me, have you read Thirsty yet?)

• I'm trying like crazy to finish writing novel #2.

• Submitting your work is an oh-my-god time-consuming activity no matter where you live, but it's even more time-consuming when you live overseas. (Mostly I submit to lit mags in the U.S.)

REALIZATION #2: It's time to get off my arse. These pieces aren't going to submit themselves. The editors of literary magazines aren't going to bang on my door begging for the essay I wrote about that god-awful smell in Shanghai that nearly sent me soaring out an open window. It's up to me. Me! "Kristin, get off your arse," I told myself this week. (And I did.)

EXTRA-SPECIAL SUBMISSION CHALLENGES FOR WRITERS LIVING OVERSEAS?

• Slower Internet connections make it more time-consuming (notice a trend here?) to look up the submission guidelines of literary magazines. I'm talking hours and hours to find out the reading period of Magazine A (Sept 15 - April 15...missed it!) and the submission address for Magazine B.

• In order to include an SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) with our work, we far-flung writers need to make sure we have U.S. stamps in our possession. After all, it is a self-addressed STAMPED envelope we have to include with our submission. (And by the way, what is the cost of sending a letter internationally from the U.S. these days? Still 90 cents?)

• I know each country is different, but dealing with a post office in China can be either weirdly quick and painless OR so frustrating you want to jab chopsticks into your own eyeballs.

• Mailing submissions from China via regular mail is fairly cheap, but awfully slow...and somewhat unreliable. Using a quicker shipping service is expensive. Kind of a lose-lose situation.

cheap & slow & somewhat unreliable VS expensive & quick & much more reliable

BRIEF PAUSE FOR RANT AGAINST BIGGEST PET PEEVE

I cannot believe that there are still literary magazines out there that state "No Simultaneous Submissions" in their guidelines. (All you non-writers out there, see below for definition of "Simultaneous Submission.")

Hello? Hello?

We writers often wait six months and longer to get a yea or nay from a literary magazine to which we've submitted a single essay or story. Six months or longer! (In fact, last year I received a rejection for a piece I'd submitted an entire year before.)

And there are still literary magazines out there that want us to submit our work one piece to one lit mag at a time? And wait for a response before submitting to another lit mag?

My god, we'd all be dead before we were published.

 
HAPPY DISCOVERY FOR WRITERS ABROAD!!!

As a far-flung writer abroad, I look for literary magazines that either allow email submissions OR use an online submission manager. Two years ago (before I became a mom and I did a lot more submitting of my work), there weren't all that many lit mags that offered this option. Most accepted submissions via snail mail only. Today (pause for happy dance) there are many more. And it seems the list is growing.

Here's a quick list of lit mags that now allow email submissions OR use an online submission manager. (There are more, I'm sure. I just haven't discovered them yet.)

• Keyhole Magazine
• Mid-American Review
• Ascent
• Black Warrior Review
• Agni
• Southeast Review
• The MacGuffin
• Redivider
• The Indiana Review
• River Teeth
• Silk Road
• The Louisville Review

THE OUTCOME?

I've spent oodles of hours over the past five days submitting work. So far, I've submitted one short story and two essays to handfuls of lit magazines. Yep, I sent some via snail mail and some via online submission. And oh yeah, I've made a number of simultaneous submissions.

Hopefully I'll soon be letting you know that I've got a new essay or short story coming out. Fingers crossed.

AND FINALLY, A BIG THANKS!

To all the lit mags that allow simultaneous submissions AND take online submissions. You rock! Writers all over the world thank you.

___

Thanks to Simon Howden for the use of his photos.

*What's a simultaneous submission? It's when a writer sends a piece to more than one literary magazine at the same time.

Writing The Far-Flung Life: The Life and Times of Expat Writers

Here's the truth. We expat writers have some pretty hilarious, tres bizarro, mega-heart-breaking, uber-adventurous, heads-bowed enlightening, truth-revealing, "no effing way" stories to tell.

We could begin right at this exact moment telling those stories and not be finished until...well, until never. And the entire time we were telling them, you (our audience) would be bent over double with laughter, sobbing like babies, or saying "No effing way" over and over again.

After all, we brave, crazy, passionate expat writers not only travel to exotic locales for spits-and-spots of experience. We actually pack up our homes, our families, our hearts, our underwear, and our bottles of Imodium and MOVE to these exotic locales. We say, "Yeah, bring it on! I want to live in this place...as uncomfortable and confused as I am right now...and I want to...I want to..."

"You want to what?" you ask.

"I want to figure out who I am in relation to this new place. Because I was pretty damn clear about who I was in my home country, but here? Here? This place where I stand out like a sore thumb? I don't have a clue who I am or how I fit in."

"Anything else?" you ask.

"Yeah, I want to KNOW this place. Not just a little, but a lot. As much as an outsider can, I guess."

"That's a mighty tall order," you say in a John Wayne drawl because maybe you are an American.

"Yeah, but I've got a while."

Then we expat writers live in these locales for...one, two, three, four, even ten years...witnessing cultural clashes, cultural enlightenments, medicine-resistant illnesses, language conundrums, awe-inspiring kindnesses, life-changing revelations, strange fish-stomping deaths, unfamiliar burial rites, and perhaps most importantly, everyday life. We eat funky foods and compare this to that. We stare, get stared at, drop chopsticks, make friends, make mistakes, and finally, let the old shift as the new seeps in.

And of course we write about it. Because that's what we do. Because like all writers, we are obsessed with getting our stories onto the page...with working life out in pen and ink (or via the clickety-click).

But something else happens as well.

We start to change. We look in the mirror and say, "Who the hell are you?" We thumb through the myriad of stamps in our passports and say, "Who the hell am I?" We study the addresses on our mail and say, "Home?"

Because at some point...some critical point...we stop feeling like citizens of a single country...and instead feel like citizens of...well...the world.

How effing corny and wonderful and confusing and unlikely is that? There's no precedent for being a "citizen of the world." As far as I know, there's no "citizen of the world" anthem. No "citizen of the world" constitution. No "citizen of the world" rule book. No "citizen of the world" flag. There aren't any traditional "citizen of the world" costumes or sports clubs to cheer for.

Just what holidays does a citizen of the world celebrate? Tet? Chinese New Year? Passover? Christmas? And if Christmas, Santa Claus or Sinterklaas?

So once we feel this way, what do we do?

Well, you know, we're writers--expat writers-- so we do what we always do. We keep telling stories. And we find ways of sharing those stories with you (our audience)...wherever you are...back in our "home" countries...here in our adopted countries...or in the countries we touch down in along the way.

And hopefully, you (our beloved audience) read them.

_______

Thanks to Francesco Marino and djcodrin for the digital artwork.

Me & David Foster Wallace: Common Ground

You know, I've never read David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. I've also never read Brief Interviews with Hideous Men or A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.

The one DFW book that I bought with every intention of reading was Consider the Lobster and Other Essays. But no, even when I got that one home, I didn't read it.

To be perfectly honest, I've never read anything that DFW wrote. He's one of those super-intense writers that I have to be emotionally, psychologically, and soulfully ready for...so far, that time hasn't come.

Despite that, I've always known who DFW was. (Sadly, he committed suicide in 2008.) I knew the world considered him to be a brilliant writer. I knew he took chances in his work. I knew he was edgy and passionate about words, had a cult following, usually had long(ish) hair, and took good photos.

What I didn't know was that, like me, DFW wrote in his books. I don't mean he wrote in the books that HE wrote. I mean he wrote in the books he bought and read. You know, the books that he put on his desk, bedside table, and in his bag. He scribbled, made notes, and circled words he either didn't know the meaning of or wanted to know more about. And the cool thing? His books (along with his manuscripts, etc.) are now in a collection at the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin. So you can actually see them both online and if you happen to be in Austin, in person.

Some cool words DFW circled in his books?

ort

suint

valgus

More? Absolutely. See them here.

While you're bopping about the DFW collection, check out his notes on Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved Children and Cormac McCarthy's Suttree. (DFW even doodled glasses and a mustache on McCarthy's bio photo. Hee hee.)

Since I get a lot of grief from folks for writing in my books (one reader recently sent me a note that said I treat books like a whore in a naval yard...yikes), I'm loving the fact that DFW did it, too. It's a vital part of my writing process...and I don't believe books are this THING, this OBJECT, to be revered and honored...set on a shelf to be eyed from afar. I believe books are supposed to be read, used, reused...however that works for you.

Remember, it's the story housed in the physical book that is important...not the actual pages or the covers. It's okay to make the pages part of your writing/artistic/life process.

I repeat, it's okay to make the pages part of your writing/artistic/life process.

My message?

Break spines.

Doodle in your books.

Daydream while you doodle.

And yep, go on...write in your books.

How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families: Part II

On July 27, 2009, I wrote Part I of "How (Not) to Talk to Adoptive Families."

Unfortunately, here's Part II:

A month or so ago I was visiting preschools in Shanghai, looking for a good fit for my two-year-old daughter Tully. I wanted what all moms and dads want for their child's first school: a warm, creative, loving atmosphere with fun, attentive, smart teachers and a safe environment in which to thrive.

At one particular school that I'll not name here, I met with the staffing director, a Shanghainese woman named Katrina*.

After a tour of the school, Katrina and I sat down in the office to fill out paperwork and talk. Because the toddler classroom was located on the second floor of the building and featured a balcony, I wasn't interested in the school. Big safety issues. But I filled out an information form anyway: protocol.

Next to the question "What is your child's nationality?"I wrote Vietnamese.

"Vietnamese?" Katrina said, reading over my shoulder.

"Yes," I said.

"You are...?"

"From the United States."

 "And your husband is from?" Katrina glanced at the form. "Ireland."

"Yes," I said.

Katrina waited for me to explain. I didn't. I tried to move the conversation to the necessary topic: whether or not I was interested in sending Tully to school there.

But Katrina? Nope, Katrina was not ready to let go of the question of Tully's nationality.

"I don't understand," she said. "How is your daughter Vietnamese if you are American and your husband is Irish?"

[Quick pause to explain that while Katrina is from Shanghai, her English is excellent. There wasn't a language problem going on.]

"We adopted Tully from Vietnam," I said after a long silence during which I tried to decide whether to answer or leave abruptly. In retrospect, I should have left abruptly.

Katrina and her husband, it turns out, had talked a lot about adopting a child themselves. Of course, in China, most couples are still only allowed to have one child (although this is changing a little). So in the end, adoption was not a possibility.

"Besides," Katrina went on to explain, "I don't believe you can love an adopted child as much as you love 'your own child.'"

See?

Should have left abruptly.

Without going into the details of every one of my responses, here's a quick list of the things Katrina said to me over the next (very long) 5 minutes:

• If you get very angry and beat your child, "your own" child will understand that you did it because you love him. Your adopted child will always think it's his fault.

• Does your daughter [pause] "look" Vietnamese?

• You can't love an adopted child as much as you love "your own child." (She said this a number of times.)

• I don't understand...why don't you have a child of "your own"?

There were a lot of issues buzzing around this conversation, including a wide cultural gap that I couldn't have narrowed no matter what I'd said. Adoption isn't common in China, and many people are bewildered by the concept. But Katrina? She's a pretty smart, educated woman with a lot of interaction with the expat community. Even if these thoughts were in her head, she should have known to keep her trap shut.

"I have a child of my own," I told her before I left the school.

"Oh," she said, getting visibly excited, "you have a child besides your daughter? A child of your own?"

[OMG]

"No, I have one child," I said, "I have my daughter."

"I don't understand," she said. "You just said you have a child of your own."

"Exactly," I said.

_______

*Katrina's name has been changed.