Experiencing the Death of a Parent While Living Abroad

Published on by An Accidental Vagabond2 Comments

It may be too soon to write.

I had been back in Zhengzhou for four days before I got the news. I’ve been living here for about 5 months teaching English literature to high school age children. I’m not a teacher. I think I have the knack. I certainly have the ability to be in front of people and talk, ten years of theatre training makes that a possibility. It isn’t my passion. I’ve avoided my passions because my passions are not “practical”. I came to China because my life in the states was stagnant. If I wasn’t going to throw my life into writing and theatre than I could at least travel while doing a practical job. It seems ridiculous now. Everything does.

I love my mother. I love her very much. It was just her and I. My parents divorced when I was one or two. My dad wasn’t one of those men that bailed and never returned, but he wasn’t always around. As I grew older he would come once or twice a year to pick me up and take me to my grandparents. I loved these trips because I loved my dad, but as I grew older I realized it was my mom who struggled to raise me day in and day out, and dad, well in my youth he was entertainment. Mom raised me. I would say that our relationship was not always healthy. There was often a role reversal where I would play the part of the mother and she was the child. This often caused anger and resentment on my part. I’d constantly rail against her behavior. Wondering when my mother was going to grow up. It wasn’t an easy life. My mom’s life was filled with a painful childhood, the loss of the only person she really loved (aside from me) her sister, and many bad choices in men, and some bad choices in lifestyle. My mom was an addict. She could be addicted to anything. Food, drugs, shopping (but she never had any money), men, anything. She said, about going to the casino, “Oh honey, I have to limit myself.” I had asked her why. “Because, Adrienna, I’m an addict, you know if it makes me feel good you know I’m going to do it till it kills me.” Then she’d laugh. She knew how to laugh at all of her pain. In her fifties she became homeless for three years. She had been homeless, addicted to meth, addicted to heroine, had a stoke, high blood pressure, issues with weight, diabetic, and because of the use of needles she had hep C. Still she was resilient. She’d gotten into a housing program, off the meth and the heroine- unfortunately she had to use methadone, she had to take tons of pills, but she was good with her eating (mostly). After her stoke she taught herself to read and write again, and she was trying to retrain herself to draw. My mother had the natural ability to draw. It was her neglected talent. There were two things she could not kick. Her cigarettes and bad men. She was down to one or two cigarettes a day then maybe one or two a week, but a diabetic person with high blood pressure and a stroke victim should not have one a week. Then there were the men. Those men. I called my mom the bum magnet. If you’re a man looking for a woman on welfare and raising a child on her own my mom’s the one for you. I hated them. Since I can remember there was some man coming into our life sitting on the couch trying to play the overbearing father while my mom worked under the table to support me and the man that was living off of her welfare checks. There wasn’t a being I hated more except perhaps child molesters, and I met some of those too. Even into her later years they’d come sniffing around. “Letafae, darling, won’t you take care of me?” There wasn’t anything she wanted more than the traditional family. The mother, the father, the child, the house, the picket fence; hopeless happiness. Since the moment I left at the age of eighteen and for the following twenty-two years, I agonized over my mother. How do I take care of my mother and also have a life for me?

From the moment I can remember wanting to be something I wanted to be a performer. First it was dance, then singing then finally acting. I wanted to be on stage. Starting at age thirteen until I was twenty-four all I wanted was to be an actress. But, self-esteem, and insecurities and the “impracticality fear” won out in the end and I abandoned my dream. I later moved to writing because it felt safer and hidden. No one tells a writer to straighten their teeth or loose weight or rejects the body as it stands in front of them. It’s just words on paper, but impracticality fear won that one too. I wanted to be an artist, but through strange mental manipulations from who knows where poverty maybe society maybe self-esteem maybe, I believed it wasn’t for me. We believed our dreams were not for us. “I was born poor and I’m going to die poor.” My mom would say in her moments of despair. She’d look at me with love and say, “but not you baby, you’re special. You’re not like me.” But, I was like her. I am a part of her, and I couldn’t shake the thoughts that a life of art was not meant for me. The words impractical, impractical, impractical- you’ll never make money- what will you do when you’re old- and how will you take care of mom, plagued me. So I floated from job to job to job trying to find something that fit something that could make me money something I could stick with till I made enough to go home and take care of mom. Take care of mom.

I told both my parents that going to China would be good for me because I could travel which I loved, and get the chance to see if teaching is right for me. “I already have a degree I could go back to the states and get my teaching certificate”. I could be a teacher a steady breadwinner. I think I was trying to convince myself more than them. I stayed with mom for two weeks before I left. She drove me crazy. At times I felt I wanted to push her away because her love was almost smothering at times. Once she had said to me on a visit. “I wish it could just be you and me forever.” She had been lovingly staring at me. I don’t even know if she was aware that the words came out of her mouth. I looked at her incredulously, “Thanks mom, that’s what every little girl wants to hear from their mother.” Her face changed from her distant revery to surprise, “Oh Adrienna, you know I didn’t mean it like that!” “Oh yes you did.” I said. She started laughing. “You’re one of those crazy ladies like Betty Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.” I said. She laughed, “Oh, Adrienna, I am not.” My goal on that visit aside from just visiting her was to get her set up on Skype so that we could talk on a regular basis. I had given her a computer, but by the time I got down to her home one of her male friends had convinced her to take it apart and rig some stuff up so she didn’t have to pay for internet (she was well below poverty level). I suppose it was a helpful thought, but he was a strange guy who had his own time frame and plans and control issues and he used that computer among other things to control my mom. I was angry, and frustrated, and I left without getting her on Skype. She managed to e-mail me in the first few weeks, but then two months went by without a message or response to my messages. Because of the homeless stint ten years prior when I couldn’t find her anywhere, and because of my huge fear of her dying and me not knowing or just her being in the hospital and me not knowing (because that happened once), and because I promised her I would be there for her in her old age and that she would not die alone, I’d be there; going two weeks without hearing from my mom sends me into a state of panic and anxiety. When I lived in Portland, I called her every week. For twelve years every week I’d call and we’d talk. I contacted friend’s and mother’s of friends to ask them to check in on her. She’d always be fine and she’d laugh about my concern. My friend’s mom said, when she checked in on my mom this last time I had asked for help, that she was giving some food to a homeless guy, and she was in super high spirits.

China’s been hard for me. I won’t get into it, but it’s been a tough adjustment. I have six more months on my contract and I’ve decided not to return to Zhengzhou after my contract is up, but I didn’t want to give up on China. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Vacation time came in January and I tried to decide, do I go home to see mom, or do I do some traveling? I weighed the points. My contract ends in August so if I go on a trip now then I definitely will go home in August to see mom then maybe come back to China and work somewhere else for a year. Maybe I should apply for grad school be a certified teacher. I didn’t know. In truth nothing excited me except the idea of traveling so I decided to go to Viet Nam and Australia. I had hoped maybe somewhere in those two countries I’d receive a sign something telling me what to do next. Mom’s internet and computer were working so I told her I was going to Australia. She was excited. She wanted me to tell her all about it. My mom’s birthday was on the 26th of January, but I was in Viet nam without access to a computer so I had to wait a few days to write her. I wrote her from Australia wishing her a happy 64th. She wrote back with glee in a short badly spelled e-mail. Her typing wasn’t very good because her hands would not always work. I wanted to send her a postcard so I asked her if she could get into her mailbox. She had broken the key and then lost the key, and only my mom could not get into a regular mailbox. I know there are still letters and postcards I had sent her from China sitting in that damn mailbox. She wrote to me, “Oh baby doll, that damn mailbox causes me such hassle. I’ll tell you more later I gotta go to Winco and my rides here. I gotta catch that ride.” Then she left me with a Janet Joplin song, “Bye Bye Baby Good-bye.” I wrote her that I would send another e-mail on the 16th when I got back from Australia.

I forgot to write the e-mail. I went right back to work and four days into being back in China, I thought, oh shit, I need to write mom. After class, I walked home and turned on the computer, and that’s when I found out mom was dead. My mom’s dead. She was found on the floor of her bedroom. She had been dead for a day. It was the 20th of February, and I flew to California on the 21st. I’m an only child and there were things to do.

There were friends. Lots of friends. My mom’s friends who I call the ladies, and my friends who came down from Portland and Seattle to support me and help me with all of the details of death. We cleaned her apartment, and got rid of her stuff, gave things away, I took the paperwork and photographs. Talked to police, and funeral parlors, and banks. Mother was cremated, and I got the ashes and my friend drove me and mom’s ashes four hours to Eureka so that I could scatter them in the place that my mom said she had her only happy childhood memories. Then more paperwork. My birthday came and went and my friends had to go back to their lives and mom’s girlfriends’ grieved, and I had to get back on a plane and fly from Chico to San Francisco, to Hong Kong, to Zhengzhou, to a bus to my apartment to my bed, and now I grieve.

My entire adult life I have thought almost daily about how to help my mom. How to help my mom while trying to preserve myself. My goal in the end was to be there for her. “You will not die alone.” I told her. I will be there. I wasn’t. I wasn’t there. I was here. In China. Thousands of miles away. When I climbed into my friend’s car that hot day in early August of 2013 as she was about to drive me to San Francisco for my flight I had no idea it would be the last time I would see my mom or hear her voice. She had health complications and I was prepared to fly home in an instant if she got sick, but it was still a surprise. She had just been to the doctor two days before she died. She knew I worried about her. “Oh, Adrienna, don’t worry, I’ll be around to torture you for years. I’m not going anywhere.”

It has been five months since I’ve seen or spoken with my mom. Five months that have suddenly turned into the rest of my life. Gone, just gone. There was no viewing, no body, only ashes. I had always thought I’d get a message a psychic message of sorts. I thought we had to be connected in the way that I would know. I’d always get these feelings of concern thoughts about how I needed to contact mom, and find her to make sure she was okay. When I was a child I used to be terrified on my visits with my father. I’d lie on the bed in my grandma’s house and listen to the sounds of the city and have bad dreams about coming home and finding my mother dead. I’ve feared this moment for as long as I can remember. I’d get the feeling and contact her and she’d be fine, but this time there was nothing. No psychic message. There never were any messages it was just me like playing Russian roulette with my anxieties. When my mom’s sister died, I was five years old. I still remember the flashing lights, my mom crying, but I don’t remember my aunt. There were years of crying and I remember holding my mom, but not knowing what the crying was about. My mother told me that after my aunt died that she spoke to their mother and my grandmother had said to her, “It should have been you.” There was so much pain in that family. My grandmother said once to my mom, “No one will love you and you will die alone.” I was very protective of my mom. You won’t die alone I promised. I’ll protect you I promised. I was little when I made those promises, but they never left my mind.

I read there are five stages of bereavement. Denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and then hopefully finally acceptance. Supposedly, a person feels these in no particular order except number five comes last and not everyone gets to number five. I feel like I’m hitting all five at once. I can’t believe she’s dead, I think if only I had been there, if I wrote that damn e-mail on the 16th, I’m a bad daughter, a failure, I’m angry, all of the stages simultaneously. There are even glimmers of acceptance. It’s still too soon. I’ve been back in Zhengzhou for less than 24 hours, I was in Australia not even a month ago, I cradled my mother’s ashes in my arms as I cried myself to sleep days go. It’s all just happened.

I sit in my empty apartment looking out at grey smoggy skies the color of my mothers ashes, thousands of miles from all that is familiar and comfortable, my sleep is racked with sudden panic attacks, and I think, oh my god what now? My mother’s gone. What now?

China Diaries: Why am I Struggling to Write About Life in China?

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Daylight in Zhengzhou, China. Multiple scooters, cars and electric cargo trikes bottle-neck into crowds of pedestrians.
Crowded streets near the Zhengzhou train station

Culture Shock?

I have been in China for a little over a month. In fact, I am one week shy of two months, and I don’t know what to say about it.

There are plenty of topics from which I can choose to write a story. I could write about the air pollution. I could write about the traffic and the driving. I could talk about the cultural differences in ideas surrounding education. I could write about visiting Shaolin and what it felt like to have my picture taken as many times as some of the stunningly rebuilt temples. I could talk about what it is like to be a teacher in a program filled with China’s second generation of wealth. There is the food, the water, the toilets, the westerners there are many topics.

Erqi Memorial Tower at night in Erqi Square, Zhengzhou, China.
Erqi ( pronounced Archie) Memorial Tower in Erqi Square

Yet, when I face this computer screen and this blank page or when I hold a pen in my hand and stare down onto the blank sheets of paper in my journal, my mind is empty. I am unable to communicate into written word my experiences thus far. I’m certain I have been experiencing culture shock. There were days in my first week when I couldn’t go outside. I was like an agoraphobic unable to leave my apartment. It wasn’t only about how different it was, but how different I was in a crowd of thousands. I’ve never experienced these feelings before, and I am struggling to find the words to describe what I have been feeling, especially in the moments of paralysis.

Trouble with Words

Writing is the moment when I, an author, can be like the painter. When words translate impressions, observations, and feelings into verbal expressions. It is the time to recreate inner thoughts and experiences through figurative language in a way that guides others toward understanding those thoughts. Written words allow others to share in those experiences, maybe even pretend that they are the ones living vicariously through the words on the page. This is a particular type of writing. It is the type of writing I want to do. I have these words. I know I have these words. They are in my brain. I know it. I can feel them bubbling and rising to the surface of my mind, resting on the frontal lobe, and like water they soak in between the ropes of my brain. I sit up and grab a pen to write, but when I go to the desk they vanish.

I am left with a feeling of a wanting and an emptiness.

The Zhengzhou international conventaion center lit up at night with glowing purple, pink and blue colored lights.
Zhengzhou International Convention Center at night

I Teach English. Students Memorize English.

“Use your English words.” I say this a lot in my classes.

“What does that mean?” I ask a student that is making a gesture with their hands. I think I know what they mean, by the gesture. I could easily say, “Yes, you are right that is the definition,” and let it go, but instead I say, “Use words. What do you mean by that gesture.” I push them because I have overestimated my understanding before, and communication has been lost. The point of our languages is to communicate. The student looks at me with a pensive look, “ummm… it is very hard. I do not know the words.”

My Chinese students are very good a memorizing. They are very good at taking tests. They are able to read a passage in English out loud, but when I ask them to explain what they have just read, they do not know. Reading skills are strong, but comprehension is low. The tests are not about comprehension, but recognition. They know the words in English, but they do not understand the words.

A class photograph of teachers at a school in China.
Year Book Photo, Teachers at Middle School #47

Language is complicated. It has four parts like a clover, yet within each part of learning a language there are deeper more complex units of understanding. It is beautiful. Multilingual people have a valuable gift. The gift of communication across nations. I don’t have this gift.

“Use your English words”. I suppose that is where I need to begin. I can follow the advice of Raymond Carver and write a word, and then another word until I have a sentence, and then when I finish that sentence I will write another one. It’s like walking Carver said, “you put one foot in front of the other.”

The Beginning is Sometimes at the End

And so, I can begin at the beginning.

I moved to Zhengzhou, pronounced Jengjo, China on the 25th of August. It is a large city in the largest province, in China; the Henan province. There are 80 million people living in Henan. There are 9 million people living in Zhengzhou. Those numbers are not exact, but they are close. There are 600 registered westerners living in Zhengzhou. I am one of those 600 westerners. 9 million Chinese citizens and 600 registered foreigners.

In my part of the city, the Central Business District, I have only seen foreigners who work at my school. Most days, I am the only non-Chinese. The only white person, and people stare and point, following me with their eyes. I am a foreigner. I can not hide this. Growing up white in a predominantly white town, and moving to a predominantly white city, I have never stood out. No, that isn’t right. Standing out can be fun, and positive, this is different. I am seen, yet invisible. All eyes are on me, but when I reach out for help eyes either turn away or turn blank, and some eyes scan me from head to toe, but somehow I am not seen, and my words are foreign.

I know other people have experienced this. People of color experience this even in their own country which must add another layer of otherness. You should be a part of the community because you were born there, but you are not, you are an outsider. The thought of that on top of what I currently am feeling wells up within me. I feel an empathy for others that I once only held as a sympathy. It’s lonely. It is a lonely feeling.

Few people speak English in my neighborhood. I do not speak Chinese. I do not even know the words. I am an alien in China. I am different. I am isolated. I am surrounded but alone. I don’t know the words. I don’t understand. I am alone without the language. My students they know my language, but they do not understand my language. So much is lost in the translation of gestures. It is just memorization without comprehension.

I am wrong. It is not lost in translation because there is no translation. I do not have the language to express to English readers these feelings of isolation within crowds. Yet, I teach English. My English fails me. What I wrote here today is the best I have to offer.

My Last Days in America: China Diaries

Published on by An Accidental Vagabond4 Comments
Portland, Oregon night city scape.
Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

Leaving Portland, Oregon

I’m what you call between employment. I need to make a small amount of money last a couple of months in two countries before my new job begins. I’m going to be a teacher. In China. I don’t know what that will be like, but hopefully in the next year I will be able to expound on this experience.

The journey started over a week ago. I ended my job, left my room in the house where I rented space, and I left Portland, OR.

Three women bundled in jackets posing on the beach in front of Haystack rock in Cannon Beach, Oregon.
An Oregon coastal January with friends

I’ve lived in Portland for almost thirteen years. It would be thirteen years’ on the 11th, but I didn’t quite make it. I had always had a love-hate relationship with the city. I loved the people I became friends with, I loved the easiness of living, I loved the beautiful scenery and the fresh woodsy air, but there was something I disliked too. It was a something that I could ever put my finger on and still can’t. A feeling of not really fitting in. I could never really make things “work” in Portland. I found that finding the job that was in line with my career dreams was unreachable except through volunteering (which I did but it never or rarely turned to pay) romantic relationships seemed impossible, and creatively I lumbered along like a bog sloth. I was complacent and I didn’t create, and I couldn’t break out of the rut. Yes, yes, I know this is not Portland’s problem it’s mine, but all the same, the dislikes compelled me to leave. To become uncomfortable.

I left Portland on the fifth of August. Most of my personal items were sold or given away. I’ve stored some boxes of books and photos, two small items of furniture, and various sentimental knick-knacks at a friend’s house (my former roommate/landlord). The contents of my life can literally fill a small car. I’ve packed two large pieces of luggage each weighing just under 50lbs. I have a carry on, my laptop, and a purse. These items will be my possessions for the next year.

A Road Trip From Portland to San Fransisco

In order to officially and legally work in China I had to go to the consulate in San Francisco to pick up my visa. This made for a great excuse to take a road trip from Portland to San Francisco where I could stop in a small college city called Chico to visit my mom.

My good friend and I decided to drive down to California together. It was her ideal really. She said it was a great excuse to visit her family, and also nothing is more fun than a road trip. My friend, and I are both Portland transplants. Both of us are Northern California natives, so a trip to California is also a visit to our places of birth.

A woman in dark sunglasses standing in from of a tree in front of glassy Crater Lake in Oregon.
Crater lake and me.

Crater Lake Resurfaces Memories of the Dead

We stopped for a night in Crater Lake and camped. The night air was warm and smokey due to the fires in Southern Oregon. We made a small contained fire and ate snacks. We made vodka cocktails mixed with grapefruit juices manually squeezed from grapefruits, with added bing cherries and cherry juice. All of these items were left over from my going away party. We drank our cocktails in front of the fire. Cocktails and camping in Crater Lake seem contradictory to me like the two don’t belong. We needed beer or a bottle of whiskey. Vodka never struck me as a camping drink, but there are no rules.

In the morning we drove to the lodge and walked to one of the many viewing points. We walked on a hiking path to Discovery Point, and there we silently stared at the crystal water that reflected the clouds. The line between earth and sky was blurred and my thoughts drifted to my friend Sue who died six years ago. It was Sue who convinced me to move to Portland in the first place, and on our drive up from Chico, CA we stopped in Crater Lake. I hadn’t been to Crater Lake since that trip 13 year’s ago. Now, I was leaving and I would never see Sue again. I knew I wouldn’t see her again when I got the news of her death, but sometimes I forget she’s really gone and not just traveling. Death can be like that sometimes. You forget, but then you remember. You remember and you feel the loss, again.

It was hot and smokey like we were driving into desolation. The hazy sky reminded me of images of China’s cancer villages. Rarely a blue sky I was told. I’m hoping that it is not as thick as this burning air.

Northern California

In truth, I never thought I would leave California, but life happens and sometimes your roads take you to places you did not expect to go.

Shasta

In Shasta we took a detour to Whiskey Town Lake. We set up a make shift picnic and split a beer and ate cherries and chips. I waded into the water that was warm. The red clay beneath the water swirled under my feet and turned it pink, but only when I moved. I wanted to swim, but my suit was packed and I knew from many childhood experiences that the clay stained your clothing.

Paradise

My home town of Paradise in northern California is in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. It gets hot and dry in the summer, and sometimes we’d get snow in the winter. My father left Paradise when I was seven or eight, but my mom lived there until her 50’s then she later moved to Chico which is only 20 miles west of Paradise. I didn’t get to make it to Paradise before I heading to San Fransisco, since my parents no longer live there and most of my friends have moved away, but I did visit Chico to spend time with my mom.

Five children sitting in the dirt in front of a dilapidated house. From left to right: A white blonde girl in a summer dress, a dark haired girl, a blonde white boy, a brown haired girl with white complexion, and a Mexican/black girl in overalls.
A group of seven kids posing in front of a river. Four kids are standing and they all have their arms around each other. From left to right: a blonde, white, boy, topless and wearing blue jeans; a dark haired, Latina girl with a white blouse; a black boy with short hair is topless in blue jeans, and a white girl with shoulder length blonde hair in a white blouse and blue jeans. Three younger children are sitting on the rocks. From left to right: a white blode girl in a dress blowing a balloon, a dark haired boy with an olive complexion in a blue shirt and shorts, and a Mexican girl with curly hair covering her face, she is dressed in a dress.
A man with a red beard and wearing a tank top and jeans is watering a garden with his young daughter standing at his side.
A close-up of a man with long red hair and a beard holding his young daughter that looks like she fell because she had blood on her nose.
A sepia faded photo of a woman and her young child.
My Life in Paradise, CA, 1970s

Chico

We drove the rest of the way to Chico, and spent a night with my mother. That evening we went to a bar I used to frequent when I was a student at Chico State. It’s always fun to be new in a small town, even though you had actually lived there in the past. I spent my teenage years hanging around downtown Chico from time to time, but the places my teen self would go are gone. I spent five years of my twenties, my college years, going to bars and restaurants, and bookstores, and record stores, seeing bands, and running into people I knew, but those days are in the past. The places I used to frequent are gone or have changed. The bands are gone, and the friends are gone and the kids I knew have kids. Yet, this old bar named Duffy’s that catered to the theatre crowed was still there. It was there, but I was different. I moved and grew older. I sat for the sake of nostalgia, in this bar, where I spent one too many days during my spring finals, but it was as if I had never been there before.

The Entrance to Sierra National Forest picnic grounds. Red Bud.
Photo by Guy Hurst on Pexels.com

Five Days with Mom

In the morning my friend said good-bye, and the reality of my actual life change hit. Although, only subtly because I had decided to stay with my mom and staying with her is like nothing has changed. I’ve been here for five day’s now, and tomorrow I will see an old friend, my oldest. A friend I met when we were eleven or twelve, and I will spend the night in my hometown of Paradise, and then on the eleventh we drive to San Francisco, and that is where things will begin to take hold. So, I did stay in Paradise after all.

The Golden Gate Bridge over the San Francisco Bay.
Photo by zahid lilani on Pexels.com

Finally, San Francisco for the Visa

In San Francisco, I have that final step left to take before I get on the plane to China. My visa. It has been difficult getting my paperwork from China in order for me to apply for the visa, but it is all finally here waiting for me at a friend’s house in San Francisco.

So, This is Change.

Two days ago I felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of the plane flight, fear of being lost. Today is calm. Excitement hasn’t hit yet. Maybe, I don’t understand what I’m doing yet. I know I don’t understand because I don’t know what I’m doing.

Three people in a kitchen during halloween. A man with a viking costume and a skull painted face stares at the camera as the two women in the background hug. One woman is dressed in red with white face paint, and the other is dressed in street clothes, but wears a crown.
A woman dressed like Little Red Riding Hood holds a basket as she looks walks though the woods.
A woman with wavy blonde hair stands under a string of lights.
Four women in Halloween costumes posing for the camera.
Halloween photo of two women. One woman is dressed as Alice in Wonderland and the other who has her arms wrapped around Alice is dressed like a bloody dog.
I always thought it was a bloody rabbit come to find out it was a mad puppy
A band poster for the band, Our Hero George.
Three women in a basement drinking beers.
The Band
Life in Portland was a lot of fun

What is the saying? I have no idea what is happening next and I’m excited about it.

I prefer the line from Sue’s favorite movie Almost Famous:

It’s all happening.

How I Prepared to Move to China

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CBD in Zhengzhou

Applying for the Job in China

Three weeks ago, I e-mailed off an application. Last Wednesday, I had an interview over Skype, and the following day, Thursday, I was hired.

Just like that a new door opened. A door that leads to the East. Farther than I’ve ever gone. I’m nervous and excited for the change, the possibilities, the challenges, and of course the potential for new stories. In August, with just a few bags I will walk through a door that I never saw until a month ago, and once I’m over the threshold, I’ll be working as a literature teacher and leading drama classes in Zhengzhou, China.

Shanghai city scape at night.
Photo by Wolfram K on Pexels.com

Zhengzhou, China

I am moving to Zhengzhou, China. It is in the Henan province, that is in the northern central part of China. I don’t know anything else about it. Honestly, I don’t know a lot about China other than it is a place that has been used as a political boogieman and education marker since I was a kid. I remember Ronald Regan saying that our American high school math scores needed to beat China’s, but we were far behind. I also know about Tiananmen Square protests and massacres because I watched on the news in real time, but I also know I’m not supposed to talk about that because in China-it didn’t happen. I know there is suppressions of speech and religion especially when it comes to speaking out against the CCP. There have been great historical dramas that have come out of China, and incredible inventions came out of ancient China, like paper making, gun powder, the compass, and the printing press to name a few. I know about the Great Leap Forward that led to mass starvation. I know about the Cultural Revolution and of course I know of Mao. Still, China is huge, and filled with over a billion people, and you can never really know a place until you go there. Yet, as a foreigner, I may still never truly know China.

It’s almost June, and my panic scale has just reached “nervousness” and the early stage of “what if-mania” is baring its teeth. I have three months left in the U.S. before I start my new, yet, temporary life in China.

Purchasing the Plane Ticket

I bought my ticket this morning. I’ve never been so hesitant to buy a plane-ticket, ever. My dilemma was that I didn’t really know what day to fly or when to arrive. My contract begins on the 25th of August, and two days ago I found out that school starts on the 1st of September. So, I took the chance and bought it today.

Every step of purchasing the plan ticket felt mentally challenging. I chose to fly one-way for a couple of reasons. Although, I wasn’t sure if it would cause me visa problems if I didn’t have an actual round-trip ticket. I’m going to be there for a year, and I can’t book out a year in advance, so I had to take the risk of booking one way. Also, I might not want to come back. I may want to stay in China, or work in another country, or fly into some other part of the U.S. I don’t know what I will be doing as of August 26th 2014.

After talking with some folks who have lived or are currently living in China, I decided that the one-way was a good choice. It cost around $700.00. Some people believe that buying a round-trip is cheaper in the long run, but it isn’t. The lowest cost I found was $1400, and well that’s two one-ways, so I didn’t see the deal, especially since I would have had to change my return flight anyway, and that would come with an extra fee.

A glowing U-shaped building reflecting on dark water with other brightly lit buildings. China.
Photo by The Whale on Pexels.com

Money, Time and Visas

The visa. Oh the visa. Visa. Visa. I live in Portland, Oregon, and the closest Chinese consulate to me is in San Francisco.

This is okay. I want to fly out of SF anyway. I’m from California and it would give me an opportunity to see my parents, and some friends before leaving. The problem is “the when“. When do I leave from Oregon to California, and how long do I have to wait in San Francisco without a job? These are the tiny things that plague my thoughts at the moment, and surrounding these thoughts is the main worry that always presses my panic button- money. I hate money because I never have it, and it’s all anyone wants.

One of the first steps I had to take care of before even flying out to San Fransisco was getting my physical. It was a very specific physical that was sent to me by the school and required by the rules of Chinese immigration. I just had my physical and all my lab tests that I had to do in order to get a clean bill of health (part of the visa process). This isn’t a bad thing, but with each vial of my blood I thought, “I bet my insurance does not cover this.” Always, money.

I need to gather a copy of my passport, some passport photos, two letters of recommendations from schools, my diplomas, the contract, a letter of invitation from the Foreign Expert Bureau, and an application fee then take all of these to the Chinese consulate in San Fransisco.

Apparently, I have the option of going through a visa service agency, so I’ll explore that. I can’t apply until I get my medical report and send it off to my employers, and then I need to wait for my letter of invitation.

Two traditional Chinese buildings built on a lush green cliffside.
China

Putting My Query Letters and Writings on Hold

Getting things together for this move is in the forefront of my mind. I haven’t followed up on any of my writing pursuits, but moving to China is a great excuse. I haven’t written in ages. Although I think about writing every day, but to sit and to focus and to write has not been happening. I need to relax and just do it because everything is going to work out, and I have three months before flying over. I’d really like to bust out a ton of query letters, and get my book out to a much wider net than 9. Nine rejections is nothing. I should have a least 120. My procrastinating brain say’s, “but, I need to get the China stuff sorted first”. Which is probably true.

Worries, Stresses and Excitement

I’ll arrive in Zhengzhou at 10:50 pm. I have a layover in Beijing, but I don’t think I’ll have much time to look around. I worry about what I will do once I get to Zhengzhou. I haven’t heard from anyone from my new place of employment in the past few days, so I’m not sure about the logistics of my arrival. I will fly in late. I’m nervous that my arrival time might make it difficult for someone to meet me.

This will be my second time living overseas. I’m leaving all of my comforts and false securities, (false securities that make me feel secure) and I’m going to China. China. To live. I believe I will have my own apartment not to far from the school, and that’s pretty exciting. I’ve lived overseas before more then ten years ago, but I had to share a flat, so having my own place sounds amazing.

A young woman on a swing holding three balloons colored red, white and blue.
Preparing to be An Accidental Vagabond

This is where I am right now. Today. May 28rd, 2013. Beyond the nervous worry, that really isn’t that bad, I’m really excited. I have no idea what my future will hold. None. There is no blue print or life travel guide for me to follow. I don’t even know where I will be next year. It’s a little strange, but that’s okay. In truth, I never really know what I will be doing the next year. I think I know, but I don’t because life is- unexpected.

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Why I Left America, the Third Time

Published on by An Accidental Vagabond2 Comments

A Final Rejection Letter

“Applicants who have not been notified of admission or placement on the waitlist by April 2, 2013 should assume they will not be offered admission for 2013-2014. Because of the high number of applications and limited staff, it is not possible to send out denial notifications until late spring. Applicants who wish to confirm their application status sooner, may contact the Programs in Writing after April 16, 2013.”

-Love UCI Irvine

Cut out letters of N O
Photo by alleksana on Pexels.com

A lot of people are good enough, and a lot of people are exceptional. However, there are a lot of people in the world, and not enough spaces in elite institutions.

A Great Disappointment

The University of Irvine didn’t bother to send a rejection letter. They just let me and everyone else who appiled to stop waiting around. Our $88.00 dollar application fee wasn’t even worth a standard personal letter of rejection. I wonder how much Universities make from application fees. I also wonder where that money goes. Not back into the students, since they can’t even set up an automated rejection letter that makes it look as if they regarded your application as much as they regarded your fee.

I’d been rejected from Brown, Syracuse, and San Diego, but Irvine was the most insulting. They were the most expensive to apply to and gave the least personalized response. Californians, am I right? I feel, as a Californian, I can make fun of the vanity and superiority complex of the institutions of my home state. were able to send an e-mail rejection.

A Chip on My Shoulder

Anyway… that’s over. I’ve had to ask myself, what now? I had wanted to go to graduate school, but I don’t know if I have the heart to fork out more money when I’m clearly not qualified to go. Honestly, graduate school was just a symbol for me anyway. I symbol of success and escape from the poverty and welfare that I was raised in. It would prove that I was intelligent, that I was not white trash or trailer trash or all the other disparaging words that ended in trash. I had a chip on my shoulder and acceptance into a graduate program was going to remove that chip.

Only, I wasn’t accepted. Maybe if I had the money to apply again, I would have done it, but it was too much money for fees. It felt a bit like getting robbed. Like all these universities had a bridge to sell me.

A Land of Opportunity Elsewhere

Maybe, America wasn’t the land of opportunity, after all. Maybe the land of opportunity was somewhere else. Somewhere beyond the seas, but how could this tailer trash get out there beyond the seas?

I had done it before. I was older now, but not feeling wiser. I was feeling rejected, and a little bit worthless and with a significant amount of money missing from my pocket, but I had left America once, no twice, before, so it was time to find another way out.

 

How I Wrote My First Novel and Earned a Mastery of Writing Certification

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A group of people smiling for a group photo.
2011 the first graduating class of The Attic Atheneum

The Atheneum is Over

The weekend of June 3rd and 4th was the Atheneum’s final retreat. An educational ending to the year program. There was plenty of wine and amazing food. Each teacher/mentor spoke on something that they felt was important for us to take away with us, now that we would be embarking on a post-writing school life.

I proudly walked away with a Certificate in the Mastery of Writing, thank you very much, and I had a nice glass of champagne thanks to Paulann Peterson. Paulann had invited Berry Sanders and his wife to speak to us on our last day. Then we all said, good-bye and good luck.

One Last Assignment

One of the things that we were requested to do was to present a project as a sort of team effort (our teams were, fiction, poetry, and non-fiction) as a part of the fiction group I was asked to write a memoir. I decided to write about what it was like to finish my first novel, and since my first love is theatre, I couldn’t help but to compare the two in the world of endings.

A group of four men and two women posing for a group photo on an outdoor staircase.
Team Fiction Writing

How I Wrote My First Novel

Prague

Although I had wanted to be a writer I never consider myself a writer, because I didn’t feel like a writer. So, I journaled. I journaled from the time I was 16, sometimes daily sometimes with an absence of many months. When I turned 26, I moved to Europe, and I took a journal along with me. I spent two years living abroad sometimes journaling sometimes not, but it was during my short life in Prague that I had faithfully journaled, recording every moment daily. I had captured nuances and conversations, in fact, it may have been the first time I wrote my observations versus my inner feelings.

Prague's old town viewed from the Vltava river.

Colorado to Oregon

When I reluctantly returned to the states, I found myself sitting on my aunt’s bed in her one bedroom apartment hiding out from a hot Colorado summer storm, flipping through the pages of my journaled history in Prague, longingly reading over the transcripts, and it was at that moment (eleven years ago) that I realized I had a story. It wasn’t an amazing story. It wasn’t going to save lives or change the way people felt about the world. It was in the words of Sylvia Plath: a potboiler. Yet, to me, it was a necessary story and it wanted to be told. Right then and there on my aunt’s computer in two to three days I wrote the entire first draft except for the end. I didn’t want it to end how it really ended. But how did I turn fact into fiction?

I traveled across the western United States with a man, his dog, his depressed mother and her bottle of vodka, and ended up in Oregon, but that is another story. I carried a printed copy of my endless manuscript along for the ride. The electronic copy had been lost. I shoved my novel in a folder and ignored it.

Back to School

Two years later, I decided to return to school. I applied to a community college to focus on mathematics, but while there I decided to take a fiction writing class for fun. It rekindled my interest in my previous novel attempt. I thought about finishing it, but it took me another three years before I sat down and retyped the entire thing out again, and still with out the needed ending.

I had an incredible love hate relationship with my work. There were moments when I wanted to burn the thing and moments when I thought it was brilliant, but ultimately it was the characters that kept talking to me. They would interrupt my dreams and daily thoughts living out their lives as if I were still writing them.

An Office Job, A Retreat, and a Recession

In 2007, seven years after I got my initial idea to write the book that I was now calling Žižkov, I started working at  a corporate office. It was the most secure job I had ever had in my life. I had actually made payments on my student loans, I could buy clothes, I could save money, but I during my time there I didn’t write. I felt my dreams of living a creative life into a nostalgic past.

a table with chairs in an office meeting room.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Around this time my grandmother passed away and I received a small inheritance. I used my inheritance and a small savings; I had saved enough money to quit my job for 3 months and still live comfortably. Once and for all I was going to write this damn book. I was confident I would complete it in three months and then find another corporate job as a receptionist. I would feel accomplished and be safe and secure and sound. September 15th, 2008 was my first day as a full-time writer and it was also the day the stock market plummeted into the sea like a mobster in cement shoes.

I kept writing.

A close up of a hand with black finger nails writing in a note book, and the other hand holding a cup of coffee.
Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

I rewrote the entire novel in 3rd person. I created charts and back stories for all the characters. I did research on Prague and read Czech writers in order to refresh my memories of the city. I fantasized about the money my book would make me once it was turned into a movie. I rewrote it again in first person (not recommended). I wrote the first half at least in six different drafts, but never found my way to the true ending. Simultaneously, I was sending out my resume. I sent out many applications. Resume after resume with no response, not even a rejection, till I ran out of all my savings. I lost the room I was renting, and I had to rely on the generosity of my friends to house me until I could find work.

Acting Saved Me for a Bit

When I auditioned for Inviting Desire, I was literally auditioning for my life. It was a miracle of fate that the one job that would save me from homelessness would be theatre. It was almost ironic.

While on tour I wrote a rough draft of an ending for Žižkov. When we ended the tour and talked about future projects I swore up and down that I would complete this book because although it had an ending it was not finished.

A man walking onto a stage with three sitting women. The curtain behind them is burnt orange and slightly open.
Inviting Desire, Calgary, Alberta performance

Acceptance into The Atheneum

Another year passed. I returned to retail, and various side hustles before I could really commit to working daily on my manuscript. On a whim I applied to the Attic Atheneum. At first I was rejected, but due to a drop out and me being next in line, I was accepted. My goal was to complete my novel.

I Wrote a Novel Titled Žižkov

On May 27th, eleven years after I knew I had a story, I finished the book, but it was not like theatre. There was no applause, no one to clink pint glasses with, and no one to drown in the amazement that it was finally completed. There had been people to support me along the way, encouraging friends; friends who helped finance my schooling; my peers and teachers in the atheneum, but at the end of the experience I was alone.

A book cover of a novel titled Zizkov. In the foreground are two strips of pictures of a black man and a white woman from a photo booth. In the background is a photo from Old Town square in Prague.
My Book Cover Idea

It was my idea to take the journey alone and I ended it alone. Sitting in front of my computer typing the last words I whispered a “holy shit it’s done” and felt a whoop rise up inside me like we just won the world cup, but then I looked around the room, and there was no ‘we’. There was only me. I felt empty, weird, almost apathetic toward my work. All those years of fighting and this was it? And that was it in its entirety: who cares but me? I was a writer. I didn’t need an audience to finish the book. I didn’t need anything but me, and what did I really want? What did I expect?

My sketch copy of Jacob Lawrence’s 1940 Painting Harriet Tubman Series Panel #4 celebrating

How it Feels to Write a Book Vs. Closing Night of a Play

When you create a play, when you perform you perform for an audience. Everything is for the play itself and the audience. I can write for an audience and a publisher, after all I did dream about the movie, but in the end that isn’t what it’s all about. It doesn’t take an audience to write a book. I can put that manuscript in a drawer or erase it because it’s finished already. No one else needs to read it in order for it to be complete. A play just isn’t a play without the audience, but a book is a book even if it isn’t read. Though, it should be published to complete the job. Working toward publishing is something completely different.

So why did I write it? Did I write it to have my voice heard or was it that I wanted to return to Prague? Was it that I wanted to be someone other than me, and be purely me simultaneously? Does it even matter? The answers were not there for me. So, I turned off the light, closed my laptop, and took a walk to shake off the feelings of loneliness. I had felt like I had just gone through a mutual break-up; we both knew it was over, but why, we had so much love? And still it was over.

Feeling Like a Writer?

As I wandered through the streets near my apartment I heard a voice inside my head. The voice of a young girl as she crouched on a rooftop:

“I watched as J.P. threw the television from the roof of Jesse’s parent’s house. I don’t know why he does those things. He’s not even drunk. J.P. is straight edge, he just fucks shit up purely because he’s an asshole, but I don’t give a shit, I’m an asshole too.“

And I knew I was listening to the voice of a new character, she was talking through me, and she was completely fiction —well—mostly.

My friend told me about a writing retreat with A Room of Her Own or AROHO a writing retreat for women. We decided to attend because you can never get enough writing support. I may have completed my novel without fan fair, but I don’t need to learn alone.

I didn’t try to publish Žižkov. I still have it. Perhaps one day it will be seen in print and have a book cover, I’m not sure. My program is over. My first book has been written and I have another story idea brewing in my head, but I still don’t feel like an author. Perhaps one day I will feel like one. As for today, I’ll keep writing. What is a writer supposed to feel like anyway? What a silly thing to want to feel. The saying is actions speak louder than words. If that is true I never need to hear someone tell me that I’m a writer because my actions prove I already am.

Two women posing in a kitchen.
Emily and I at AROHO writing retreat

Another Successful Fundraiser for Arts and Letters

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Don’t Short Change the Muse II was a great success. If you are interested in reading about the first Don’t Short Change the Muse click on the link. I reached my goal and was able to pay for my final tuition payment. I’m pretty proud and amazed to be able to say my writing program was entirely paid for with money raised by art. Spectacular really.

A silhouette of a woman setting up a cafe at night.
Setting up for the show
Musicians setting up to perform.
Warming up before the doors open

Don’t Short Change the Muse II

We had a much larger turn out then we did the first time, and we had more performers and donations for the silent auction.

An audience looks on smiling at the performance.
The audience with some of the performers

We had a lot more music this time, and we also had the extra element of a short art film. We still had some sketch comedy along with me reading and performing pieces of my own writing, but the addition of more music really brightened and entertained the audience.

A violinist, cellist, concertinist and flautist performing on stage.
The Walking Guild performing Witching Well

 

A woman in black and grey clothes performing a monologue on stage in front of a beige curtain.
I’m performing my poem Remain Seated

At our new venue we had a balcony and Sarah performed Cole Porter’s, “The Tale of the Oyster” from above the audience.

A woman singing and playing the accordion.
Sarah Performing Cole Porters “The tale of the Oyster

 

A guitar player and cellist play music and a woman sits on a chair watching.
Anna Fritz and David Waingarten playing
A stage of musicians and singer performing as a woman peeks from behind a curtain to watch.
Performing the Witching Well

Burlesque

It wouldn’t be a vaudeville show without burlesque. Miss Fannie Fuller’s tantalizing “Dance of the Seven Veils” burlesque.

A woman dressed in a red scarf dance on a stage.
The Dance of the Seven Veils by Miss Fanny Fuller
red boots, and the legs of a woman in white fishnet stockings and cream high heels.
burlesque

Once I again, I am humbled and honored to have had so many artists share their talent and offer their time and work. That is two very successful fundraisers to put to rest.

A woman in a black top, grey skirt and bright red boots gives a speech on a stage.
Grand Thank yous

Fundraising Event for Don’t Short Change the Muse II

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My friend Jen Smith created this drawing based on a poem I wrote awhile back.

I am setting up another fundraiser in order to help me pay for my tuition. This will be the second variety show that I produce. I am lucky that I happen to know some very talented performers. And this time I have the help of two friends.

Art, Music, Dance, and Film

Jen is drawing three pieces to go with one of my poems to sell at our silent auction. I have two other painters doing their own pieces. One piece that I haven’t seen yet is being done based on another of my poems. There will also be a short film, cello music, storytelling to music, burlesque, opera and an acting performance, and a reading. It is a great way to bring people together see some great art and to raise money.

When and Why

The show is on the 14th of November so it is coming up soon. Hopefully I will raise enough to pay off my tuition. This fundraisers goal is higher than the last: $1,200.00 dollars. It will feel good to know I paid for this through art versus taking out a loan. Paid in full by my own hard work and the help of artists. How amazing is that?

Collaboration Work

This fundraiser has a lot more collaborative work allowing for cross-medium and genre performances. I am working with my friend video/film maker Francis and we are going to make a video to another one of my poems: This is the Power of Performance. Now Set the Poet Free. Poetry is not my main medium, but I am collaborating a lot with my poetry. I am also collaborating with visual artists, and musicians. The band the Waking Guild, has sent me one of their songs and I wrote a story to it, so instead of singing I will be performing a reading over the music.

One Night Only

The show is this Sunday, and I have some incredible people performing. I’m really amazed with the amount of talent. I hope I have a good turn out, not just to make the money I need for school, but also just so that there is an audience for these great performers.

Don’t Short Change the Muse II

Once again we will be having another fundraiser to help Adrienna pay her final tuition fees for The Attic Anthenum.

We’ve put together another fantastic night of music, dance, acting, and multimedia visual art. Come early to enjoy the hordourves, drinks, and fun ambience.

There will be a silent auction and this time we have even more incredible art, crafts, and services for you to bid upon.

November 14th 2011, 7:00 p.m.

Come join us in community and art.

This is the drawing used in the invitation is by Jen Smith and inspired by my poem Girl. I’m really thrilled with what she has created. The originals will be up for the auction on Sunday, and prints will also be available for purchase. It is strange to see one of my poems come alive in a drawing.

Opening Speech for the Tuition Fundraiser: Don’t Short Change the Muse

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Terry O’Neil, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

William S. Burroughs once said, “Cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to short change the muse. It cannot be done. You can’t fake quality anymore than you can fake a good meal”.

He meant to always be truthful in what you write and what you do, dirty or clean, as long as it is you and yours. I also take it to mean, “don’t cut corners when it comes to what you love”.

In any art form the artist needs to continue to grow. As every artist knows nothing is more detrimental than complacency and routine. As soon as you are comfortable: change. As soon as you are popular: give them a left hook. That is our exercise as artists. We need to keep learning no matter how old we get. The grey matter in our head is plastic and expands, but only with use. Practice does make perfect, and as soon as you are perfect it’s time to cut that shit up and take a risk.

This event was a very last-minute thing for me, setting up the auction and the fundraiser, I’m amazed it has actually all come together in so little time. I had not expected to be accepted into the  Atheneum program at the Attic and was not prepared with the tuition. Like most of us, I survive by tooth and nail, but when I received the acceptance letter something inside me said, don’t say no because of the money.

The Atheneum is about building a community of writers, it is about creating a circle of learning. I have had my share of community involvement through organizations like Write Around Portland and Playwrite Inc., In both organizations I have volunteered my time to help others, all through writing and performance. This is something I have always enjoyed, and for no other reason other than that I think Art Saves Lives. I believe art can touch and change people.

This is the first time I have ever asked for money for myself, and this is also the first time I have ever built a show. The first time I have ever showcased any of my work, and in a very short time I have learned a great deal about community. The reason I followed through with this event is because of all the names you see in the program. I was amazed at the sheer excitement, joy and support my friends have offered in putting this together, and that support and joy extended out. I never knew so many people had wanted to see me succeed in my dreams, and I am honored.

There is not one artist in the history of art that did not have some network. Even the most solitary and loneliest of us need support even Van Gogh had his brother Theo. Our society, our media projects the image that certain famous artists and writers were loners and climbed to the top on their own, but this is a falsehood, everyone has held the hand of at least one person. And that is what we are doing here tonight; holding hands. You are holding my hands as I ask you for help in making my dream of becoming a great American novelist come true, so that in turn I can hold the hand of another.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of you that have helped pull this together and to those of you for being here.

Thank you to Bar Carlo for the space, be sure to buy yourself some drinks and tip the bartender. Also don’t forget to check out the silent auction. The show is about to begin!

The show began…and ended beautifully.

A single red rose bud on a bush.