How a year abroad had me questioning my white privilege more than ever, and made me never want to be called beautiful again.
It began immediately.
"So beautiful." I was told while walking with the mob of cattle that humans become after exiting a plane.
"Oh, thank you," I said, seeing my dirty red luggage on the belt, lugging it off into its upright position and power walking to the exit. The airport smelled of stale cigarettes and outside, wet cigarettes. A man was holding up my name in bold black marker on crisp white paper. I was then put in a black sedan and whisked away across the city in the pouring rain.
The first part of my life in China was lived in Suzhou, 80 kilometers outside of Shanghai with my Australian colleague, Rimmi. Our apartment was stiff, dusty and close to the school where we taught English. Although our giant strides got us there fast, It was still a journey. Every couple paces an unfamiliar smell, ducks in cages, pig heads hung to dry, tiny stunned children, honking scooters, dancing LED lights and always, always someone who wanted to chat. Anyone brave enough would use their chance to practice their English with these two towering blonde women in bright blue t-shirts. Like we were this lottery presented in front of them while they were getting their morning noodles. Take it or leave it, act quickly; these two walk fast.
"Uh, yes, hello, excuse me," the pieced together words usually came from behind us, "hello, you are so beautiful."
"Hello, oh very sweet, thank you." Sometimes we would let these gamblers walk with us and chat and other times we were late for work.
The "you're beautiful" phrase came in many forms.
Sometimes I received love letters, long, long, letters via WeChat, the Chinese mobile messaging system. They were possibly sweet but, all poetry was lost in translation: that, and the complete disregard of my obvious complacence. I was a wall, a beautiful wall.
The Aussie and I were followed and photographed. Once while having dinner at a small roadside shop, the owner sat down with us. All smiles, she propelled her phone in our faces to video chat with her daughter so she could see our "beauty".
"Pià oliang, pià oliang!"
"Xie-Xie," we say eating our barbecued bread. The table beside us sends over free beer. We received a lot of free things during our time. At the height, our white privilege got us pay raises and place tickets. On an average day, we got free fruit and beer. These are all great things, things to be appreciated. "You should be so grateful". We were, we had days of bliss and freedom are we used these days to pretend that we weren't unheard white monkeys dancing for the crowds.
The novelty of standing out indeed went away, after one pinnacle incident. One night myself, the Aussie, and our local friend, Iris, were doing more than a little drinking. Mystery liquor and red wine stains littered our watering hole, the kitchen table. The Aussie was doodling. She drew a horse and naturally, we ended up concocting the plan to go horseback riding, in Mongolia, during the upcoming holiday. We did not do this. To keep our integrity, we would ride horses but, closer by, in the city.
So, a week later our eclectic trio was suited up and bumping along on some horses in a yellow-grey open field — the lakes and skyscrapers of Suzhou barely visible through the smog.
The Aussie started feeling confident, began galloping ahead and soon I saw her leg in the air and some strawberry blonde locks falling behind. Back on the ground and we couldn't budge her leg without cries. We speculated, "a fracture?" "Maybe it's broken?" A car couldn't get to us because the perimeter was fenced so, one of our horse chaperons piggybacked her. Her leg dangled freely until the gate where a woman we still only know today as "horse lady" picked us up in her car to go to the hospital.
Iris translated. We would be going to McDonald's first to get food.
"Excuse me?"
"Chinese hospitals have extremely long wait times."
We agreed because The Aussie is a massive fan of "Macca's BigMacs". We ended up with chicken burgers. Rimmi let out a long Australia "Nooooohr" sigh of disappointment followed by a muffled cry when we went over the parking lot speed bump.
After renting a wheelchair at the hospital, myself, Horse Lady, and our trusty translator friend lifted her out of the car into the chair. Every rock on the pavement had the Aussie hunched over bracing her leg for the impact. We reach the inside of the hospital. Large entrance, high ceilings, dusty ruble from old unfinished construction piled beside the waiting area chairs. Like looking through dirty glasses, everything was once white, and now a grey film covered the surfaces.
A woman was wailing into a man's chest. They were the only ones not staring at us.
A few people began following us over to the x-ray room. Mouths open, a few meters behind.
The room was dim. More rubble stacked against the wall. Again, lifting Rimmi out of the chair to the table. There are no nurses here. The technician behind the glass told us to straighten her leg to get a proper x-ray. The three of us gently and slowly pressed down on her knee until it was flat. She screamed and she cried. Our Aussie had a small cut that dripped open on to the table.
Then we lifted her back in the wheelchair leg still dripping, leaving a pool of blood. A few more people gathered outside to door.
Iris spoke to them, saying what I can assume was "excuse me, coming through." We saw the x-rays. Broken leg. Very broken.
A murmur had begun outside. Maybe six people now. They were talking to each other, stretching their necks over one another. I made eye contact. No one flinched. No one blinked. My stomach turned.
The severity was setting in—deep breaths between bites of chicken burger. Rimmi was processing what was about to happen in this dusty hospital, with horse lady and I acting as nurse, and our ruthless paparazzi close behind.
By the time we had our Aussie in a stretcher and getting ready for surgery, we had gained a mob. The surgeon and staff took her through the last doors while Horse Lady, Iris, and myself went to sit down. The crowd fought each other to look through the small square window on the final available door before the Aussie was out of sight.
"Why won't they stop following us?"
"You're foreign," said Iris. My stomach hurt again.
This is what 'beautiful' had become. Foreign. Different. Not the same. Being called beautiful was something outside of its classic definition. We were alien. For the first time, we were the minority, and it didn't feel good.
Rimmi was fine, eventually. She went from hospital to bedridden, boot, crutch, cane to mobile with a scarred leg full of metal.
This day prematurely ended my patience. I became hyper-aware of when I was being looked at or talked about. This happened after ten days of living in China. I stayed for over a year. I had many uniquely incredible experiences; however, all these moments of joy were umbrellaed under this pretence that I was only there for the way I looked. My whiteness was the only thing that mattered. I was gifted free flights around Asia but, reminded every day in many colourful ways that I was white and only white.
Like I said, the "you're beautiful" phrase came in many forms.
Having it done so shamelessly was sometimes hard to take. Our boss asked us to find teachers that "look like us". Other Chinese teachers would interrupt to speak about my eyes or my hair or my height during my classes. Once a stranger followed me home after I insisted I could walk by myself.
"I'm sorry I've just never seen anyone so beautiful," he kept saying. I picked up my pace. He matched my speed so his face could still see mine.
"I'm almost home, nice meeting you. Goodbye."
"Oh, I can walk you home."
"No, I'm good. Thank you."
"Well, how far do you live?"
This chat went back and forth until my apartment block. I was reliving every time I've had to say no, and not have anyone listen. No, I don't need your help. No, I know my way home. No, I don't want your drink. No, she's fine. No, I can pay for this. No, I know what I'm looking for. No, I'm not alone. No.
My blood was boiling.
"Thank you, goodbye now," as I jolted into the square of my apartment, up the concrete steps, inside, slamming the door, locking it, and taking a breath. Tears.
Oh, it's not so bad, they just think you're beautiful.
Right, I'm beautiful.
