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Don’t Go. You’ll Die! (Traveling Solo While Female)

Posted on March 2, 2019 by yetanothersinglegal

My first solo trip was to Atlanta. I was recently out of college and already dissatisfied with the unfulfilled promises of adulthood my teenaged self had dreamt up with vigor as I lived in my head throughout middle and high school. I had a job that was so inconsequential I struggle now to remember where exactly I worked and what I was doing. I had heard that Atlanta was some sort of Black Promised Land and had never left New Orleans long enough to fully appreciate that I was from and currently residing in the actual Black (Cultural) Promised Land so…

I woke up one morning and announced, “I’m going to Atlanta.”

I did not expect the commentary that followed. “You going all the way to Atlanta…by yourself?” It was the emphasis on the all the way that caught my attention first. To reach Atlanta from New Orleans, all one had to do was get on I-95 and then roughly eight hours later get off I-95, right? It took the second or third raised eyebrow for me to even hear the by yourself part. My mom and dad, of course, were supposed to be concerned about me getting in my car by myself and driving all the way to the neighbouring state of Georgia. I was their youngest child. A girlchild at that. Though level headed and responsible, I leaned toward impulsiveness sometimes. So, the imagined trouble I could find myself in was a reasonable response from my parents.

However, the by yourself from the mouths of friends and close acquaintances surprised me. I was asked if I worried about being bored or lonely for those seventy-two hours I would spend in the city. I was told that I should consider waiting until at least one other person could come along. “Safety in numbers,” a couple of friends said. Rapists, kidnappers and women beaters could be lurking anywhere within those 400 miles and that was not even to mention the men who were out to get me once I actually arrived in the city of Atlanta itself. “Don’t tell anyone you are alone,” a friend advised as I stuffed some clothes into a duffle bag. “Be safe,” I was told as I drove off. “What are you doing now? All by yourself?,” was a recurring question in the emails I opened once I got to the youth hostel where I would stay and logged on to let everyone know I had not been kidnapped since they last saw me.

In the twenty years since I returned from Atlanta, unimpressed and unmolested, I have traveled alone both domestically and internationally so many times I have to now force myself to at least make effort to include other people before simply booking a flight. Though not from friends who’ve known me since the Atlanta trip, I still get the by yourself question often enough that it makes me wonder why a woman traveling alone seems odd. Given it is the year 2019, and though violence against women is a very real concern in many parts of the world, one would assume that a female adult visiting a new locale without the accessory of husband, child or wing woman is not such an abnormality.

“Several times when I’ve checked into a hotel the staff were super concerned,” Ambra, a western woman currently living in China, said. “Like I’m there to kill myself or because I am depressed just because I’m by myself.” She went on to tell the story of a staff member coming out to the pool once just to see if she really were okay. Another time, (mostly) female employees chatted her up at breakfast, voicing well intended concern that she might be alone for some other reason than she wanted to be alone.

Natavia, an American expat currently living in China, had her announcement of an international move met with stories of sex trafficking throughout Asia. “They kept saying ‘Don’t Go!’ and asking me if I knew anyone here and when I said no, they’d come up with even crazier stuff.” Though the anxieties of her loved ones did make Natavia hesitant, she had a cousin who had solo traveled extensively and lived overseas alone. The cousin was curt. “Ignore them. Move to China.”

We know everyone means well when they ask us if we are sure we want to journey to a foreign destination alone. And we are also well aware that the dangers they imagine for us are not that far from the realm of possibility. However, those dangers are not that far from the realm of possibility when we travel to and from work in the same city where we’ve lived all our lives. Rapists rape in New Orleans during the day and night. Women take meticulous care not to get themselves raped from the time their parents find the courage to send them out the house without adult supervision until they inhale their last breathe. Kidnappers operate from the same playbook all over the world and there seems to be no fool-proof plan not to get yourself kidnapped when a professional kidnapper has decided he will — today and at this moment — kidnap. When people have asked me if I were afraid of getting trafficked or drugged or disappeared when I’ve traveled to India or Senegal or South Africa or Malaysia, I’ve always chuckled and said, “Well, if I’ve managed not to have any of those things happen to me here, then I’ll just keep that same energy in this other place. Maybe, I’ll get the same result.”

Even greater than concern for the female solo traveler’s safety is bewilderment about why she would choose to be alone on a travel adventure in the first place. After dozens of by yourself inquiries, I started to hear what people were really saying. And it was not tied just to imagined scenes of me being violated and thrown into a ditch. The visions of me touring city monuments alone. A quick flash of me eating the local cuisine alone in a restaurant filled with people. Taking pictures in front of famous landmarks. No one standing next to me. My friends and loved ones were not as forthcoming about their uneasiness regarding my aloneness. Sometimes I’d be asked if I ever got bored and lonely. When I’d respond that these emotions did occur and I just felt them the way I felt all the others until they passed, I’d be met with curious stares and silence.

“Truth is, I don’t ever feel alone unless I want to.” Latasha, who is originally from Cleveland, but has lived in three different countries since moving overseas, plans her solo trips to give her the option of interacting with others if she chooses. She loves talking with the locals in the countries she visits and her singleness makes that easier to do. She is often viewed as easier to approach because there is no one there distracting her from friendly banter with a stranger. When Latasha travels by herself, she notices a marked difference in how many impromptu conversations people initiate with her. “I also always try to stay in airbnbs, homestays or with friends of friends,” Latasha explains. This gives her the option of friendly human interaction if she’s had a day of solitary sightseeing or people watching.

For some of us, solo is our preferred method of travel. And why wouldn’t it be? You get to set your own schedule. Change it at a moment’s whim. You end up going to countries that truly intrigue you and not just places that are chosen because of compromise. You are beholden to no one’s budget but your own. No one’s accommodation idiosyncrasies. If you are a budget traveler who never spends more than $30 a night on an airbnb, then you can have your basic room with sporadic hot water. If you are unapologetically bourgie, then an American chain hotel will welcome you into its arms with thick, fluffy mattresses and 24-hour room service.

Aliki, a single British traveler, packed a bag and left London to tour Southeast Asia when she was only 19 years old. She went to Thailand and followed that up with Vietnam before checking out Cambodia and Laos. She was alone in each country and was not a part of a university study abroad or any similar program. “I still go on holidays with friends, family or my boyfriend,” she says, “but the majority of my travel is done alone.” Like the many single women I meet who travel by themselves more so than not, Aliki is not surprised that women who are fiercely independent in their daily lives would fully embrace navigating foreign destinations without a companion.

Between Ambra, Natavia, Latasha, Aliki and I, we have seen over half of the world. We have done so without any attempts being made on our lives. No sexual assaults to report. (Though we have had our share of inappropriate propositions from oddly confident men who took the L when told no and simply went away.) We’ve had no traumatic “close calls” that left us hesitant to take on the world alone again.

We have all traveled much farther than Atlanta. Much farther than North America.

And we are all still alive.

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Just When I Think These People Have Done the Damn Most…They Add a Dash of Extra.

Posted on May 2, 2017 by yetanothersinglegal

I am rounding out my 12th year of teaching. That’s approximately 24 parent teacher conferences and roughly 12 sleep away trips with other people’s children. I have seen some things. I have found myself involuntarily caught in the swirling winds created by parents helicoptering over their offspring. Special snowflakes whose brilliance or fragility these parents are convinced have gone undetected by all the other adults who are responsible for their children when they are not around.

Years ago, when an 8th grader’s auntie showed up to the hotel where we were staying in Washington, D.C. with a home cooked vegan meal to give to her niece because the niece’s mother had insisted we would not truly feed her child the most appetizing non-meat food for the three days she was away from New York City, my fellow chaperones and I laughed throughout the night. Who does that? The kid is 13 years old.  She’ll be fine eating regular vegetarian food for 72 hours…geez.

I wish 5th Year Teacher Keturah could have caught a glimpse of 12th Year Teacher Keturah.  If only New York City Teacher Keturah could see some of this shit that Shanghai Teacher Keturah witnesses on the regular.

Because as per usual, our Chinese brethren have even eclipsed us mediocre Americans in the precision of helicopter parenting.

My first field trip here in China was to a province a two-hour plane ride away from Shanghai. There were 30 students who would be visiting a Kung Fu school and exploring the town where the art form began. Although myself and two teachers from the school were chaperoning, an educational tour company had provided their own teachers and guides to lead the trip.

I noticed one of these “teachers” wasn’t doing anything. To be precise: all she was doing was taking copious amounts of photos. I watched the two younger guides as they explained the history of the places where we were and led the students through ice breaker games when there were lulls in the schedule. But, this lady just kept photographing everything. As the activities got more involved and the kids’ interest increased, she would record videos as well. I also noticed she seemed to be uploading the photos and videos instantly to wechat.

“Who is that lady,” I asked my co-worker who had done most of the coordinating of the trip with the tour company.

“Oh, she’s the photographer,” he answered nonchalantly. “The parents requested someone take as many pictures as possible and upload them in real time in this wechat group they started. So, the tour company had her come along.”

Wait…what? So, parents asked to have their kids’ middle school trip live streamed? And someone green lighted that request?

Seeing the look on my face, my co-worker explained that “Last year, they asked the teachers to do it and we tried to be nice, but by the second day they were asking us to send them personal shots of their kids in front of the sites and asking us why we hadn’t put their kid with his friend for a group activity. Obviously, we stopped doing it at all after that.”

So, pulling this woman, whose real job was in accounts, from her desk and throwing her into this 5-day long trip which involved her hiking for three hours up a mountain while orchestrating photo opps with smiling kids was the compromise?

I am about to ask my co-worker a question he has watched me grapple with for the entire 9 months we have sat in the same office, marking papers and trading stories about our adolescent students acting just like adolescents.

“Don’t stress yourself,” he cuts off my question before I can ask it. “The answer is the same as always: China.”

Hours after this co-worker had reminded me I needed to just accept China for what it was, I was still a bit surprised that this woman was live streaming our school trip.

As my parents and every man I have ever dated will confirm, I am rather hard headed. I don’t stop doing stuff just because people present me with sound reasoning to stop doing it. While sitting at dinner, I mention to the table of grownups how unique this is for me to see. “Wow, providing a photographer for the parents. What a very interesting idea. I’ve never known parents to ask for that.”

One of the younger guides who had been taking charge of the activities said she was relieved that her boss had turned a white-collar office worker into an outdoor adventure photographer. A British blonde who looked to be in her early 30s, this woman had come to China to work in outdoor education at the same time I had come to work in traditional classroom education. She said her first trip with this tour company was on some isolated island that involved the group catching a plane, a bus and a ferry to get to the site where they would spend a week hiking, camping and doing general low-level Survivor-type living.

“This place really was secluded,” she explained. “We had chosen it because it completely disconnected the teenagers from their normal lives and routines.” While the group was taking a break from one of its activities, the woman’s cell phone rang. It was the parent of one of the students; she was quite irate.

“One of the teachers has walked off and left the children. I think he may be drinking alcohol over on the beach while the children wait for him.”

The blonde was speechless. “Excuse me? How did you get my number? And more importantly, how do you know we are on a beach and where this teacher is?”

The woman’s question was answered by an army of parents with binoculars around their necks marching from around a collection of trees.  These people had found a hostel in close enough proximity to the campsite and had been getting up early in the morning to spy on their children to make sure that…it is still unclear to me and the British blonde what exactly they were monitoring every day. Even after sitting the parents down and talking to them about boundaries, she still is not sure what they wanted to protect their children from. What danger lurked in their minds that caused them to catch a plane, a bus and a ferry and crawl up into trees just to watch their children for hours as they tried to pitch a tent and light a fire without a match?

Several paragraphs ago, I openly admitted to being hard headed. It should, therefore, come as no surprise that my reaction to this woman’s story was to blurt out: “The devil is a damn lie and so are you.”

“Oh, how I wish I had the creative mind to make up that kind of story,” she laughed. “It all happened just like I said. No exaggeration at all.”

My co-worker is giving me the I-keep-telling-you-these-people-are-special look when he reminds me of the last time he gave me the look. “Keturah, do we need to review why the SAT is no longer offered anywhere in China? Remember when you were confused about why all the Year 11s had to miss classes and go to Hong Kong just to take the SAT?”

I do remember him casually detailing how when the SAT people did offer the college entrance exam in the People’s Republic of China, they developed elaborate, complicated ways to prevent cheating. From what he told me, even though the system involved something close to strip searching high school students and only allowing them to sit for the exam if they were butt naked, their parents STILL found ways to send them the answers to the test via carrier pigeons and sky writing cliff notes in the air.

When I wrote China: Where People Do The Most On The Regular, some of y’all shared your own stories of spending time in China and bearing witness to the extra ratchetness among its billion citizens. Some of y’all thought I had outdone myself. “Girl, you wrote the hell out of this post” you said. You inaccurately attributed the post to my skills as a writer instead of the craft my Chinese brethren diligently put in to their heightened extraness.

I have accepted that the entire time I am here, I will walk around racking my brain, contorting my mind into complicated answer-seeking positions, trying my hardest to understand before just shrugging my shoulders and deciding: Cuz…China. Do. The. Damn. Most. And then some.

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Dear China: So Sorry, but Ms. Kendrick Does Not Accept Bribes

Posted on March 4, 2017 by yetanothersinglegal

“I told this man in plain English not to send me this jacket.” The jacket is still wrapped in its plastic casing and sitting in the opened shipping box. The rip in the packaging tape shows it was sent to Ms. Ketu Kendrick. I am way pass irritated and not yet solidly livid when I present this “gift” to my boss at the private school where I teach super rich Chinese children whose parents apparently don’t read or understand English enough to fully comprehend the clause in the student handbook that says, “teachers cannot accept gifts” or the words coming out of a teacher’s mouth that say, “No, thank you; please don’t send me a gift.”

“And he still sent it to you?” The principal who has worked in and around China for 15 years actually seems as surprised as I am. “Well, this is a first,” he chuckles. He ponders his reaction for a moment and then realizes he has lied. “Naw, it isn’t. This is China.” He thanks me for informing him of this gift giver’s aggressive campaign to get me to write favorable recommendation letters for his daughter and advises me to return the jacket with as much humility as I can. “Just remember, they think something is wrong with us for not accepting gifts so frame it like you really want to take it, but because of the school policy…”

I consider myself a woman of great integrity and I am also of the firm belief that students, generally, have already shown themselves worthy of a satisfactory recommendation letter when they ask me to write one for them. Although teenagers are not as equipped with the skills for honest introspection as adults (in theory), they can sense when a teacher is pleased with their performance and they know what their report cards show. Only students who do well in my class and have been rewarded with verbal accolades – both in private and in public – from me have asked me to write them recommendation letters. There is absolutely no need for parents to “sweeten the deal” for me. If their child were truly a waste of a seat in my class, I would politely decline their recommendation request and suggest they ask a teacher in whose class they have shown greater promise.  What could possibly be the point of accepting a bribe from a parent whose B+ student works harder than me in my class?

I need someone to tell China I believe in its children. Without qualifiers or disclaimers. They are young people so why wouldn’t I believe in them? I would like for someone to tell my students’ parents I am not any greater or lesser impressed with their children than the children I taught in Rwanda or the ones I taught in the United States. The Chinese versions of student work ethic and academic achievement look no different than the work ethic and achievement of every teenager in every school in every corner of this world. Can someone please ask these parents to stop sending Ms. Kendrick “gifts” with notes that remind her “only two more recommendation letters to send!”

The first time it happened, I naively took it for what it was supposed to be: an appreciation of the extra time it would take me to write a thoughtful letter highlighting the student’s strengths and weaknesses. A student, who in all honesty, was quite mediocre, but still showed promise shyly hovered near my desk after I had dismissed her class. I saw she had a form in her hand that she periodically glanced at before looking toward me and then quickly averting her eyes when they met mine. “Do you need something, Sweetie,” I helped her initiate the conversation. When she sheepishly explained she was applying to a high school in the United States and she was sorry for bothering me, but the school needed a recommendation letter from her English teacher, I told her I would be happy to write her one. I took the form out of her shaky hand and said, “I will try to get it done within the next week or so, okay?”

When I turned to pack up my bag and leave the room, the student pulled out a Chanel box from somewhere and then grinned at me, “Uhm…my mom helped me pick this out for you.” For about two seconds, I hesitated because the timing seemed…convenient to say the least. But, why would this sweet child who I had previously acknowledged in class for improving in her analytical skills have any ulterior motives? “Aww, thank you, Sweetie,” I patted her on the shoulder as I took the box.

And then she gave me this look. I do not have adequate words to describe what I saw in her eyes. Just my gut told me, Ms. Kendrick, this is not what you think it is. When I brought the most fly, perfectly designed sunglasses to my supervisor, my gut was confirmed. “Yeah, this is supposed to influence what you put in the letter,” the Head of the English Department said nonchalantly as she agreed to gently break it to the student on my behalf that this gift had to be returned to her mother. “The girl and her mother have good taste, though; these glasses are so you.” She complained all she had been offered in the past was thoughtless cash. And the parent hadn’t even bothered to make her feel like a lady when he offered it. “Literally, he slid an envelope across the table as he suggested his son be moved up to the honors class even though he was barely cracking a C in the regular class.” She proceeded to regale me with outrageous stories that explained why the school finally had to write a clear policy in the handbook so it would curb the thinly veiled attempts of privileged parents to give their child an extra edge in the competitive world of studying abroad.

“As you can see, even with the policy there are still parents who continue to do what they think works.” The Head of the English Department sighed. “I am not so sure everyone on our staff actually follows the policy themselves.  So, there’s that.”

I get it. There are 23 million people in Shanghai alone. Has the population of China itself exceeded a billion yet? A student being good enough is not enough even within China. If you factor into the equation students who seek to leave the isolated bubble of China and enter a culture and curriculum that, in many ways, is the polar opposite of their homeland’s, well…yeah…what conscientious parent wouldn’t see the need to “sweeten the deal” for his kid who is good enough but may not be as good as the 1000+ other applicants he has heard is applying to the same schools in America as his daughter?

But, I still need one of y’all to tell these people with words and in a tone more convincing than mine that I don’t want their damn “gifts.” I am growing annoyed at being forced to discreetly whisper to a student that I need to see her in the hall and then play like I am flattered and torn as I say, “Your father is very kind and I know he doesn’t mean anything by this, but the school has a policy, so…”

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China: Where People Do The Most On The Regular

Posted on December 18, 2016 by yetanothersinglegal

I should preface this by saying I grew up in New Orleans, a city that dismisses schools for an entire week in February just so students, teachers and their families can go out and do the most. Under the bridge. Uptown on St. Charles. In the quarter. I have not only bore witness to all manner of extra happening on the streets of the lower nine, but also watched in amusement as the most broke out among the saved sitting in the pews off Freret Street.

I lived a great majority of my adult life in New York City, where people doing the most are in just as great supply as rodents. I have watched a woman carefully polish the nail of her sixth toe on the train. On my way to work, I used to pass an able bodied homeless man who lectured commuters about laziness and greed as he openly admitted he was pan handling so he could later buy a bag of weed and a six pack of beer.

I am no stranger to the most getting done. I am not struck with surprise when I see people going beyond just extra and taking it all the way to too damn much.

But, I had never been to China before this August, much less even remotely considered living here. I have witnessed so much extra just within the city of Shanghai that it has led me to hypothesize how our Chinese brethern go about planning their day. I envision a conversation that goes something like this:

Chinese Person #1: What should we do today?
Chinese Person #2: I dunno. I feel like we should do a lot.
Chinese Person #1: No, a lot…that is not enough.
Chinese Person #2: You are right; we should do more. Let’s do more today.
Chinese Person #1: This is still not sufficient. You know what we must do…
(Both look at each other with knowing eyes)
Chinese Person #1 and #2: The most. We must do the most.

And my observations thus far prove that the Chinese are focused on and committed to their daily agenda. They do not lay head to pillow until the most has gotten done.

Doing The Most On Top a Mountain

My friend and I went on a hike of Yellow Mountain. The gorgeous mountain is in Huangshan, a province about a 6-hour drive from Shanghai. While I was left speechless by the breathe-taking views of foggy clouds hanging lazily over the mountain peaks, I also found myself at a loss of words over all the unabashed ratchetness taking place on this mountain.

One of the tour guides had strapped an amplifier to his back. A microphone was attached to the portable amp. And so was a radio. As I was commenting on this view that was such flawless perfection it looked like a painting, my friend and I had to pause our conversation because the tour guide’s absolutely audible voice could be heard on the microphone screaming in Chinese to the people in his group. He sounded angry, but I had learned that’s just how the locals sound when they talk. I wondered why he needed the microphone to speak when his natural tone seemed to be screaming. I also wondered if turning off the music that he was playing on the amplifier would help him communicate better with his clients.

“Why does this experience need a soundtrack?” I asked my friend.
“Better yet,” she responded. “Why do we all have to hear this soundtrack? Maybe his group should’ve brought headphones if they needed to have musical accompaniment on this hike.”

And speaking of the people in the group…AsianJesusinHeaven, the number of pictures they were taking on the assortment of gigantic cameras they were carrying. If anyone has ever gone to a school dance at a black school in the 80s and 90s, you will remember the large white cloth that was airbrushed with some “exotic looking” locale and the theme of the dance (A Night in Paris!) in graffiti font. What you will also recall is how you and your friends posed for the photo in front the official backdrop for the dance. I want you to imagine the squatting, peace sign throwing, body slightly turned to the left with that one leg sticking out as you put on your “can’t tell me nothing” stare. Now, put some Chinese people in your image standing on the edge of a cliff next to a sign that reads: “Please do not stand on this edge because you could die.”

If it means risking your life, then it must be done. If we are going to check off DID THE MOST before we go to bed tonight, we will need to pose for these dozen pictures with no less than 6 different cameras on the edge of this mountain.

Doing the Most on a Flight

I am a sucker for a good flight deal. So, when I saw a ticket to Malaysia for the equivalent of $150 USD, I booked without looking too closely at the details. Once I did look closely, I discovered the outgoing flight was on China Southern Airlines. I had never flown a local airline in China since I had only been here for about two months when I took advantage of the flight deal. I told myself that the low price and the local flavor of the airline were probably not good signs, but nothing could be worse than the awfulness of Kenya Airways in Africa and Delta Airlines in America.

I was naive. I will not even begin to address the ratchetness that is China Southern Airlines because that is beside the point. (And I am flying them again tomorrow when I go to Bali so it would make me sort of a hypocritical hater to speak ill of them now).

But, the passengers.

It started with boarding. I was in the minority in more than just the obvious way. I actually brought a carry on sized bag to be stowed away in the overhead bin. EVERY OTHER GODDAMN PASSENGER brought all of their worldly possessions as carry on. They stuffed and forced their fake Dolce and Vitton suitcases into the bins of this sold out flight amidst angry-sounding flight attendants trying to reason with them. I was accustomed to one or two passengers trying to flout the carryon rule with a bag that was just a bit too large or two carryon sized bags instead of one (and if we are being honest, I had tried to get away with it once or twice myself). But, when the whole damn plane does it? When it’s only like 3 people looking awkwardly at each other as the passengers get up in their feelings when the flight attendants put their feet down and just start jacking their gigantic ass bags and almost throwing them out the door to the luggage people waiting to cart off the carry on bags that should have been checked luggage in the first place?

But, then when the plane was landing. AsianJesusinHeaven? Why, Lord? Just. Why?

I was coming out of my free wine-induced nap when I heard the pilot’s voice. We had been on the plane long enough for me to figure out that he was likely making his “we are beginning our descent into Kuala Lumpar” announcement so I began to put my tray table back into position and look for my shoes underneath the chair.

The other passengers did more than me. They got up from their seats and started pulling out their bags from the overhead bin. Given the drama that had happened before we even began to taxi on the runway, I really should not have been surprised. But, alas, I was.

I can feel the plane descending and there are multiple people standing up with their bags like we are sitting at the gate waiting for them to open the door of the plane.

Angry sounding flight attendants can be heard and occasionally, passengers respond with tones that are the most and facial expressions that are more than the most.

And I am just sitting there like: Who does this? And why? I answer myself quickly. The Chinese. Because they do the damn most.

Doing the Most in the Classroom

I consider myself a benevolent dictator when I am teaching. I do not have the energy nor can I sustain the disciplinarian stance long enough to be more than a fair, yet firm educator.

So, when I say to one of the students I am in charge of in the boarding program, “Sweetie, your room was late for breakfast again so you girls won’t be able to go see the drama club’s play during your free time tonight,” I expect a disappointed, “No, please, let us go and we will not be late again.” Maybe a prolonged attempt to get me to change the rule that applies to everyone in the dorm just this one time since it was a special thing they would have to miss.

So, when this 7th grade girl breaks out into a deep belly wail and does a slow body wall slide that ends with her on the floor, I am totally flummoxed.

“No, Ms. Kendrick, please Ms. Kendrick. Let us go. Please let us go.” I sit in my chair as this child reacts to a punishmnent I and several other teachers have administered this month alone as if she has been sentenced to a beheading. At one point, the usher board has to come over to her and put their arms around her, wipe off her face, help her off the floor, tell her it would be alright, Jesus would deliver her and other things in both Chinese and English.

It takes almost five minutes for her to get herself together. 10 minutes later she is apologizing to me for doing the most and saying she and her roommates would work harder to get themselves together in the morning.

I accept her apology because I have come to accept the culture for what it is.

People often expect me to be more taken aback by the super curiosity about my blackness in China, but I have been practicing to fix my face and look unmoved when I am super curious about the levels of extra that happen daily here. I can count on one hand the number of times I have felt super watched because I was so obviously not from here. I have lost count of the number of times I have actually shaken my head in amused awe as the Chinese checked off the latest ratchetness goal from their list, though.

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Save Yourself From Pictures of Strangers’ Penises

Posted on November 3, 2016 by yetanothersinglegal

I am one of the lucky ones. I, an attractive, heterosexual single woman who has been dating attractive heterosexual single men for upwards of two decades, have never received a photo of a man’s penis without explicitly asking for one. (And that is neither your business nor the central thesis of this post so focus, please.)

And yes, I am in the lucky minority.

It seems like in the last five or six years, good girlfriends, close acquaintances, a stray co worker here and there have casually mentioned having to avoid a man in real life or block him in internet/smart phone life, because “this fool sent me a picture of his peen…and it was such a sad picture…and peen, none the less.” Each time some perturbed woman has shared this with me, I have wondered the same thing she was wondering, “Who sends unsolicited pictures of their special place to people they don’t really know?” After that question goes unanswered, I have usually moved on to the one that has inspired these words you are now reading: “Why have I been spared this pervasive tom foolery?” Don’t get me wrong; I am grateful to the universe for its compassion, but I do wonder how this trend in 21st century courting has managed to bypass my screen.

Mr. Monkey, the unofficial cab driver of the faculty at the boarding school where I teach, has caused me to reflect on the subconscious strategy I have employed to inadvertently shield me from ugly, ill shaped private parts greeting me at 7 o’ clock in the morning. He has made me realize I am acutely aware of how dick-pic-sending men vet their victims.

Mr. Monkey speaks approximately 7 phrases in English. I speak 2.5 words of Chinese. Thanks to Wechat’s super useful translate feature, he and I are able to send text messages through the app that result in my being able to use him for regular rides to the airport, metro and the bank. For some reason, Mr. Monkey has taken to sending me videos randomly. And by random, I mean…truly there is no rhyme or reason to the videos and when he sends them. Three days after we arrange my pick up from the airport, I see a video on the thread. A guy gets on a bike and runs into a tree. I assume Mr. Monkey meant to send this to a friend with whom he shares funny memes and other internet silliness and just ignore the post.

A week after that, I get a video of goats running around carefree as if they are at recess in goat primary school. Then, someone starts chasing after the goats with a machete. Mr. Monkey sends a message with the video this time. “Very funny?” It strikes me: Oh, he intends for me to engage in banter with him about these videos.

Now, here is when the strategy to not have to look at a man’s wrinkly, itty bitty johnson comes into play. There is a slight chance Mr. Monkey just thinks I am a nice teacher lady and he wants to practice his English. There is a chance he sends random ass videos about random ass things to several of his customers. There is a chance the videos are harmless.

But, I am not willing to take that chance. When I was much younger, I joked with a man about something I can not remember now. It was a typical smart ass remark that playfully mocked some trait he professed to have. He seemed to take me seriously so I quickly explained, “Oh, don’t mind me; I am just teasing you.” His response: “Oh, you like teasing people, huh?” I took his question as a literal follow up to my very literal explanation. I then found out we were having two different conversations; the one he was having was laced with delusional assumptions.

The minute or so of awkwardness that ensued taught me a valuable lesson: Men be vetting women.

I have not responded to any of the three videos that followed the one with the goats who were unaware recess would end with their slaughter. I have ridden in Mr. Monkey’s car once since the random videos started showing up on my Wechat. I made no mention of the videos and “Why don’t you say anything about my funny videos” is not one of the seven English phrases Mr. Monkey has memorized and can repeat with confidence.

My messages that only say: “Need to go to metro. Tomorrow at 4” let Mr. Monkey know my only interest in him is as a reliable driver who can get me to and fro in a timely fashion. His possible vetting of me should have left him with this conclusion: She is not one of those un-owned women who wants to engage in negotiations with potential buyers. Any possible follow up of a picture of his peen, a video of his peen or a link to a picture or video of his peen should be effectively averted.

Yes, I realize the flaws with my strategy. The not so subtle reinforcement of victim blaming it suggests. There is, also, sufficient evidence to prove my don’t-engage-with-terrorists defense is shaky. One of the first women who shared her trauma of an almost-stranger gifting her a picture of his abnormally large peen ended her story with: I really don’t know how he got my number, either. She had met him through other people and imagined that given the context of that meeting, he could have gotten her information from a mutual acquaintance who assumed this seemingly sane and civilized person was just collecting numbers to build a network of young professionals with whom he could exchange useful resources.

Flaws and hypocrisies aside, I will again state: I am in that minority of single women who have only heard about this phenomenon of adult men peddling their marked down merchandise via the smart phones of consumers who still don’t want whatever it is they think they’re selling. If you have been as fortunate as I have been, I suggest you increase your awareness and be hyper vigilant. Mr. Monkey tried to figure out where I was going the last time he drove me to the airport. I stared at him blankly and continued to look out the window.

I no longer get videos.

You’re welcome, Single Women of the World.

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You’re Too Fat for Everything

Posted on August 14, 2016 by yetanothersinglegal

Our story of obesity begins in a “medical clinic” in Shanghai’s city center. I and about 20 other teachers who are new to the faculty of this innovative international school have been bused down to get another medical check although we each had one done in whichever country we were residing when we accepted this post in order to obtain the month-long visa that would get us into China. But, we are told that the Chinese trust no medical reports but their own and so…

Off we go to this “clinic.”

It all happens quickly. The human resources manager is directing each of us quickly to the reception desk where we hand over our passport, get a number, fill out a form and then get handed a robe that we are told is “one size fits all.” I am skeptical when I go into the changing room and actually open the robe. Will the entirety of both of my breasts fit into the confines of this cotton? I share my concerns with the tiny little lady standing outside the changing room who is quite aggressively trying to quickly get me out the room and onto a scale.

“Uhm…yeah…Miss…this robe is too small.”

“No,” she quickly responds. “It is one size fit all.”

I look at the robe and then at my breasts. Look at the little lady. Then back at my breasts. I eye the robe one more time. “Mam, I am sure there is a robe that is one size fits all, but I don’t think it is this one.”

“Just put on robe.”

I do as I am told and proceed to walk out the room and flash my new colleagues.

The little lady rushes up to me saying something like, “It is all out. It is all out. I will help you.” As she tries to refashion the ties on the robe, I tell her that I have the breasts of a black woman from the American South and they cannot be forced into this handkerchief with string. The little lady is not a quitter; she is quite diligent. She works this robe around my impressive bosom and somehow manages to make me modest without a large piece of duct tape around the northern region of my body.

Once I get on the scale, two sets of eyes widen in shock. Mine and the little lady’s. I am thinking to myself, “Oh shit…look at me dropping these pounds like it’s nothing. Getting all sexy without sending folk a note of warning first.” The little lady’s widened eyes register something a bit different. They seem to be wondering why the numbers keep getting higher and then when they settle why I am doing a mini-twerk on the scale instead of crying.

Once we leave the medical clinic, where all of us were hoarded from room to room to get poked and prodded by gruff people who may or may not have been doctors, we are told we will be taken to look at electric scooters with the chance to purchase. “The nearest subway station is only a 10-minute scooter ride away from school…on a good traffic day,” one of the teachers on the welcoming committee informs us. “But, in general, it is a good idea to have a scooter if you don’t live in the city center because suburban life is suburban life no matter the country, ya know.”

I spot my scooter immediately. It is a cute little red number with a black basket and more importantly, a seat that can encompass a black girl’s booty. I plant my flag on this scooter by sitting on it and threatening the other teachers with, “Listen, if any of y’all sneak and buy this one, I know where you work and I can easily find out where you live.” I am just imagining myself scooting through Songjiang with fresh produce in my basket, honking at bad drivers and spouting out the few cuss words I plan on learning in Mandarin next week.

The owner of the scooter shop calls over the Chinese co-worker who is our translator on this trip. She turns away from me and says lots of words that I don’t understand to my co-worker. My co-worker uses much less words when she turns to me and says, “Uhm…she wants to know if you are sure you want this one?” She pauses and tries to find more words. “Like, will you be comfortable with this seat?”

I wiggle on the seat again and chuckle that my ass is not spilling off even a little bit and it is better than most seats on the bikes in most spin classes in New York City. She sees that I don’t get it. And for some reason, the owner of the shop who cannot speak a lick of English sees I don’t get it either. So, she turns away from me again and says more words to my co-worker, complete with hand gestures and pauses and attempts to find the right words.

“She thinks if you get this one, the ride will not be stable and you will just be back to get one of those bikes over there.”

Still clueless, I innocently ask, “Why wouldn’t the ride be stable?”

Finally, my co-worker cannot find anymore words and whispers, “Body size does matter.”

And then it hits me, this shop owner has been trying to say, “Get yo fat ass off this scooter that is not designed for an American body because if you buy it and then it breaks, you gon come waltzing your ass back up in here complaining like you Americans always do, wanting me to give you another bike that is better for your big ass…like this one over here I have been trying to direct you to for the last 30 minutes.”

I am tickled to death that there has been an entire lengthy conversation about how to deal with the problem of my obesity, particularly since I fail to even realize I am obese, given I honestly don’t see how this bike is too small. I am even allowed to take my scooter out for a test run, where it becomes clear to me and the other fat ass American who was eyeing a blue one of the same model that we are planning to buy a scooter that is really meant for a prepubescent girl.

When I return from my wobbly ride around the parking lot, I say to the shop keeper, “Yeah, I need a bigger one, don’t I?” She nods enthusiastically. She looks a little relieved that she did not have to tell me I was fat as she may have had to tell a non-Asian person this in the past and it did not go very well.

I am going to end with the beginning of another story that I am confident you can finish on your own.

Yesterday, I went to get a massage. I was led into a nicely decorated private room with a cup of tea and handed a spa uniform of shorts and a top.

“You put this on and then knock on door when done.”

I looked at the uniform and then at my body and then at the nice little man who had directed me into this nice little room.

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  • Keturah Kendrick

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