Finding Instant Karma in China

I was a Dad with a mission deep in the Hunan province of China. My six-year-old daughter needed some fruit to eat. When we arrived in the country, our guide had warned us not to eat fruit that might have been washed or cut. There were bacteria from the water on the fruit that our western tummies were not used to. It was fine for our new eighteen-month-old daughter to eat because she was acclimated to the water. She had spent those first months of her life in a local orphanage. But my fair-haired child wanted fruit. She was on the other side of the world with us, all normal routines were out the window. She had been a trooper, but she really wanted to have some fruit. My wife had suggested bananas since they would not have been washed or cut. I had seen a fruit stand earlier as we were taxied around the crowded city of Changsha. As the designated hunter/gatherer of our family, I set out to face the hazardous streets in search of a bunch of bananas.

I filed into the herd of moving people squished into the narrow sidewalks. The occasional motor scooter would buzz its way down the walkway sending people scattering. I dodged a couple of near misses, feeling the heat off the exhaust. I crossed horn-honking intersections, aware that our guide had warned us that in China, “Red-light is more like a suggestion.” I was relieved that the largest of the intersections that stood between me and the fruit stand had a pedestrian underpass. I skipped down the steps. I was under the streets when I noticed that not many of the fashionably dressed business types from the surface had accompanied me. There were people under the bridge. My brain stem jumped to attention, its pre-historic role awakened. Fight or flight. I chose flight and briskly made my way to the other side. As I made the ascent up the steps I saw that a few of the subterranean folks had taken notice of me. They had started to approach me, but were already too late. I was back in daylight with the potential bananas in sight.

I wish I had a picture of the real fruit stand, but this looks very similar.

 I do not speak Chinese. Other than the families in our adoption travel group, I would estimate that approximately three people out of the five-million people in Changsha spoke English. The lady at the fruit stand was not one of the three. There was some fruit that resembled bananas hanging in the corner. I pointed to them. She spoke to me in Chinese, but immediately knew that it was meaningless to me.  She walked to the bananas and held them up in a question? I nodded and spoke in English, a fruitless exercise, I know. But she understood the nod. She put the bunch in a bag and held up five fingers. I assumed five Yuan, or about two dollars. That seemed right to me. I opened my wallet which had the equivalent of an average citizen of China’s entire year’s salary in it. I pulled out the Five note and held it out to her. She had an immediate look of panic on her face and began vigorously shaking her head no. She reached for my wallet and looked at me with kind eyes. I handed it over. She rummaged through the cash and finally pulled out a tiny little bill with the number five on it! She held it up with “aha” written on her face. I smiled.

Everywhere that I had spent money, the stores would hand these tiny bills back to me as change. No coins. I guess this miniature five was like a nickel. Two cents American. The kind, honest, fruit stand vendor had stopped me from paying her enough for a whole truckload of bananas. I would have never questioned the price that I thought she had indicated with her five fingers. She could have just taken it. She could have bought some nice things for herself or her family. Instead she held my wallet that contained more money than she had probably ever seen in one place and pulled out what amounted to two pennies. She set an example of kindness that I made a mental note to try and follow. Tuppence for bananas.

Happy to have successfully gathered sustenance for my family, I made my way back to the hotel. At the big intersection, I had a choice to make. Under or over? The street was not designed for over, but the well-dressed folks of Changsha were dashing their way across. Brakes were screeching and horns blared. If I imagined a photograph of chaos, it would look like this scene. I chose to go under.

I made a few hesitant steps down and tried to survey the best route through. It was dimly lit with those kind of lights that make a loud buzzing noise. I could see people milling about. Unlike the super-efficient people on the surface, they seemed to have no place to get to in a hurry. I looked closer and could see old cushions and sheets fashioned into makeshift beds. These people lived under the ground. Subterranean. I’m not sure how many of them had all four appendages, but most were missing an arm or leg. They had beat-up looking crutches or just had one crutch. It seemed that whether they had all of their limbs or not, most of them had severe facial deformities. We knew that this was a condition not favored by Chinese culture. In fact, the rules stated that you could not adopt a child from China if you had a facial disfigurement.

They were waiting for me. They knew that I would have to come back this way. I knew the look. I get approached within blocks of my own house by people needing money. In America we have been taught not to give cash to the homeless panhandlers. We are told to be suspicious. That they will just use it to buy drugs or alcohol. That we become enablers by doling out money. We are told to advise them of the availability of resources offered by the community. But what we usually do is ignore them or pretend that we have no money to give.

In China, I had money to give. Should I? These folks clearly needed it. They were dirty and malnourished. They were desperate. What would happen if I opened my wallet of cash under the streets of Changsha to hand out money? Would they all politely line up and wait their turn? Would I be mobbed? Would I be beaten or killed? My mind was getting away from me. It was right as these thoughts were running through my brain when I felt a tug on my cargo shorts. I looked down to see a man who had made his way to the halfway point on the steps where I was hesitating. He had severe cataracts and must have been nearly blind. He was missing the lower half of both legs. He had crawled up the steps on his belly. He was dirty in a way that I had never seen. Grime so rubbed into his skin that it looked like permanent stains. He had a tin cup in one hand. He was pleading with me in Chinese.

I tried to reach into my pocket to get out my wallet. His hand clung to my shorts. I was nervous and continually scoping out the other tunnel dwellers. As this man was tugging harder and harder on my pants, I noticed a few of the men from below start to make their way toward us. I tried to ask the man to let go of my shorts so that I could get my wallet out, but of course he had no idea what I was saying. As the others got closer, my primordial response system went into overdrive screaming, “Fight or Flight!”  Dammit!  I just needed him to let go of my shorts. I started to move forward. Now he was grabbing my leg. He was making a wailing sound. Several others under the intersection took notice. They began to head my way as well. Instinct took over. I wrenched myself free of the legless man on the steps. As I rushed forward to try and run through to the other side, the force with which I freed myself sent the poor guy tumbling down a couple of steps. His tin cup was jarred from his hand and loudly clanked down the steps. I could hear his cries as I dashed as fast as I could for the staircase on the other side. I had caused a commotion. There were voices of outrage recognizable in any language. These people did not like me or what I had just done. I made it up the steps and back into a normal, bustling streetscape. A surface free of people with disabilities or disfigurements.

With my bag of fruit still in my hand and my wallet full of cash, I headed directly to our hotel. I delivered the bananas to my perfect blond haired, blue eyed daughter. She had dazzled the residents of China with her beauty. They wanted their picture made with her. They wanted to touch her hair. She was a star in China and now I was her hero who conquered the streets of a foreign land to return with the fruit that she had wanted so badly. Only, I did not feel like a hero. I definitely was not a hero.

The lady at the fruit stand had demonstrated kindness, restraint, and generosity to me. And I fully intended to make an effort to emulate her. And yet only moments later I did just the opposite. I could think only of my own safety. I had knocked over a legless man who desperately needed someone to show him some kindness. The universe asked me to put my beliefs into action and I failed. The Karmic consequences would be brutal. 

I needed redemption.

The next week was spent in Guangzhou China. We stayed in The White Swan, a hotel known for its grandeur and luxury, in a room that overlooked the Pearl River.  Our adoption group was scheduled to tour a Buddhist monastery. This monastery was famous for its one-thousand-year-old pagoda. It was seventeen stories tall. If we wanted, there would be an opportunity to participate in a traditional Buddhist blessing of the babies. We were all in for that. However, we were warned that beggars waited outside the temple to prey on tourists. Our guide told us not to give them money. She said they wanted it for alcohol and that they would just waste it. That sounded familiar. 

Bigotry has a universal lexicon.

Incense for Ancestors

Our bus pulled up across the street from the entrance to the monastery. And then I saw them begin to gather around our bus. 

It was as if the people from under the bridge in Changsha had made their way hundreds of miles south to Guangzhou. 

The beat-up crutches, the missing limbs, the cleft palates and the facial deformities were the same. Our guide instructed us to wait for security to move the beggars back before we got off the bus. A couple of men wearing bus driver style uniforms began to herd the people away from the door of the bus. There efforts opened a space for us to make our way into the temple as the hungry and needy called out to us. I could not get them off my mind.

Furnace to burn money for the spirits.

Flowery Pagoda 1000 years old

We were safely enclosed inside the walls of the temple. Everywhere around us incense was burning for ancestors. There was a furnace for burning money so that the smoke would rise and bring wealth to departed family members. The one-thousand-year old pagoda did not look a day over eighteen. It was shiny and fresh.

It was tall enough that the poor people, in so much need, just outside these gates must have been able to see it. It must have seemed like an insult to them. It’s fresh paint more important than their empty pockets. There were decorative lanterns everywhere. We took pictures. We participated in the blessing of the babies in front of three immense and golden Buddha statues. Fashionable young women wearing short-shorts wanted their picture taken with us. And outside the gates I knew that the others were waiting. The others who had been shunned for being different.

 I know that the cosmos would not view what I did next as a real act of redemption. But I needed to make a symbolic statement. I needed to demonstrate an example of kindness and acceptance of differences while in this country. This country had a dark side to it. A side that so valued baby boys over girls, that the orphanages were overflowing with abandoned girls. The law was one child per family. So in many cases, if a girl was the first born, they were left in secret near a police station or welfare institute. But it went further and we knew it. Children born with birth defects were often abandoned regardless of sex. They were considered un-adoptable and spent their lives in institutions until they were old enough to be released to live as best they could in the streets. Or under the streets, as I had witnessed in Changsha.  And now I was complicit in the perpetuation of this bias. When I raced past those people with birth defects and those who had limbs amputated to get through that tunnel, my actions told them that they were to be feared and that they had no value.

An adoptive mother that was in our travel group came up to us. She was horrified at the condition of the people we had seen as we got off the bus. I told her that when we headed back to the bus that I was going to give the people money regardless of what our instructions were. She said that she would do the same thing. I asked my wife to get the kids on the bus while the guards were holding the people back and that I would dole out some money and then be right behind her.

Outside the gate with my family safely on the bus, I already had cash out of my wallet and I was grasping it inside my pocket. My co-conspirator had done the same. She and I were now the only travelers in the space between the guards and the humans that so closely resembled those that I had feared under the bridge. They were reaching their hands out between the guards, pleading in Chinese. Out came the cash. At first we were trying to hand out the money, but it became too frenzied in an instant. The guards were not happy. They pushed their backs up against the people and shouted for us to get on the bus. So we both tossed the rest of the cash over the guards and scrambled onto the bus. The driver slammed the doors shut. I looked back at the excitement and mad scrambling for money that ensued, but not for long. The driver engaged the throttle as if the people weren’t there. The excited scramble quickly turned to people dashing out of the way for their lives.

We have not been back to China. It’s been Ten years. We traveled there to bring home our beautiful, spirited daughter. I walked to a fruit stand to get some bananas and got more than I bargained for. A lesson and a gift. I got a lesson in generosity and honesty from a stranger. The gift came from the man who clutched at my shorts and begged for help. The gift came in the form of his unforgiving wails as I left him tumbling down steps and his tin cup that clang-clanged out with each bounce downward. Those sounds have haunted me. And I hope they always will. They are the sounds of humanity.

The Vietnam Experience or Coloring on a Tabula Rasa

Dr.  Frazier (Terry, in green shirt) hand-pedaling in 2020

If I was born a blank slate, it did not take long for the world to write the word WAR upon me. It was 1965 and the number of troops in Vietnam went from around 23,000 to over 180,000. That’s 180,000 young Americans sent to a country that most had never heard of, to fight a war that was un-winnable. A war that was misguided at best, illegal and immoral at worst. Soon the death toll of Americans would rocket and the shockwaves created would reverberate through every aspect of our lives. The names of the fallen were read each evening on the nightly news as families sat around the dinner table. Each name smudged on our collective psyche. Each wave of bombing would shake and tear at the fabric of our social order. The broadcast of real war footage into our living rooms shone a light on the horror of war previously unknown to those who had not been in battle themselves. This war, fought so far from our safe lifestyle here in America, would shape the world around me. It changed the music I would hear. It affected the films that I would see. It shook the conscience of clergy and drove them to action for Justice. It was a catalyst for social change that would forever erase a generation’s innocence.  If I was a tabula rasa the war would etch death, protest, and the upheaval of social norms upon me. And if I was a blank canvas it would also paint music, poetry, and art on my soul.

He rolled into the auditorium style classroom at the University that I attended. I had seen him around campus. His legs amputated at different and odd locations as if done in a hurry. No thought given to the aesthetics or potential functionality. He sat in his chair nervously twitching the 6 inches of leg that remained below one knee. The other leg barely existed. Just enough there that he could bend at the hip into a normal sitting position. His appearance in the room had resulted in an immediate hush of nearly 100 students. He said nothing at first. He paced the floor by wheeling back and forth, as if he wasn’t sure how to start or what to say. Without a word he pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his shirt pocket. His hand trembling slightly, he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He inhaled deeply and let out a long billow of smoke. This was the 1980’s. Smoking was allowed in most buildings, but not inside of a State school, let alone a classroom. I’d never seen anything like him.

By the early 70’s I was a coloring book and the world had scribbled graffiti all over my pages. Phrases like mutually assured destruction, baby-burning, and carpet-bombing. Words like napalm and Viet-cong.  Protest songs were being recorded into my skull: “War, huh! What is it good for? Absolutely Nothing”, “What are we Fighting for? Don’t Ask me I don’t Give a Damn”, and “Four Dead in Ohio.” Images were burned into my brain: Naked girl on fire, Asian man with a gun to his head, Soldier without legs being escorted home in his wheelchair across an empty, wet airport tarmac.

I have been told that that in the 1950’s, America itself was like a blank slate. Or maybe it was an etch-a-sketch. All the ugliness of two World wars erased by vigorously shaking itself clean.  So I have imagined what it must have been like for a young man born twenty years before me. A young man raised by the Greatest Generation. I have thought of him and how he must have believed in our government and had been taught the value of serving his country. And that the United States was a country that was morally superior to the rest of the world. He would have heard our President argue that the freedom his parents had fought for was at stake and the only way to save it was to stop the spread of communism that was domino-ing its way around the world. I Imagined this brave, honorable, kid would have voluntarily put his life on the line. I have pictured him signing his name on a document that would seal his fate forever.

After exhaling, he broke the silence, “I’m Terry and I’ll be teaching this class.” More silence. The class seemed stunned by the strange behavior they were witnessing. The cigarette smoke was spiraling upward in streams and dissipating into the high ceilings of the classroom. He continued,” If I’m going to teach this class, I’ll have to smoke. If that’s going to be a problem for you, leave now and drop the class.” A couple of startled students started quickly gathering up their materials. As they started to head down the steps toward the exit he added, “And I might as well add that if you will be offended by my use of the F-word or any other cuss words then you should leave now too. You can drop the class.” More students made rustling noises as they gathered up their things. A couple appeared to be in a real huff. He sat quietly and took long drags off his cigarette as ten or fifteen of the original 100 made their way out of this madman’s class.

When the last of the deserters had fled, Terry relaxed a bit. He told us that as long as he was smoking, we were all free to smoke in the class as well. Someone on the front row asked if they could bum a cigarette from him. Terry laughed and then obliged. He seemed glad to have gotten past the smoking and cussing disclaimer. Instead of pacing in his chair he now authoritatively wheeled front and center and addressed us in a casual voice. He had our attention.

The class was new. It had caught my eye when I saw it in the offerings of the English Department. There was no description. It just said ENG965: The Vietnam Experience, Frazier. In my Freshman Composition class, I had written a research paper on The Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. It had only been dedicated the year before. There had been nearly as much controversy around the Memorial as there had been about the war itself. Prominent conservatives had objected to the design. They had called it a wall of shame. They had been upset that the designer was of Asian ancestry. A compromise had to be reached in order to have a memorial at all. A second more traditional statue was built close by to satisfy the opposition. The research had piqued my interest in the war itself. So when I saw this class, I registered for it.

The wall was a blank slate before the war.

Terry informed us that it was going to be a film class. We would watch Hollywood movies about the War in Vietnam. Then we would have discussions comparing the films with his own experience as a soldier in the US Army. He told us that his legs had been blown off when he was hit by a mortar. He said that the Doctors had told him that prosthetics were not an option due to the small amount of leg that he had remaining. To lighten things up he assured us that he was in full possession of another appendage and he had children as proof!

Platoon was a fairly new release and would be the first film shown. Our professor would be watching most of the films for the first time. There was no syllabus. Our professor was candid and told us that the class was going to be tough for him. He said that he was not sure if he would be able to complete the whole semester. It was going to be therapy for him. He explained that there was only one requirement to get an A and that was to complete a project of any kind about the Vietnam War by the end of the semester. There was no attendance or participation requirement. Ha! All those people that were offended by smoking and cussing left before that nugget was revealed!

He had not talked much about his experience in Vietnam or his feelings about it. He was using this class as a mechanism that would enable him to approach the subject academically. But it was obvious that this class was going to be anything but academic. Personally, I was about to participate in the only class in my entire college career that would change me in a fundamental way. With each film we watched and each emotion laden discussion led by Terry, I began to question everything that I thought I knew. Not just about Vietnam, but about our Government. I questioned our country’s honesty with itself.  I began to see that our entire worldview can be shaped by half-truths and one-dimensional perspective. I began to question myself. What kind of person was I? What kind of person could I be? And I questioned our entire system of education. Surely the experience in this smoke-filled, emotional, free to cuss seminar was at the core of what real learning should look like.

With each class Terry began to reveal more of his own feelings about the war. He talked about how his political views had been changed by his experience. There were heated debates that led a few more students to walk out and never return. I was riveted to my seat. I was flummoxed that college kids like me, that enjoyed the luxury of being of age during peace-time, could be so self-inflated as to believe that they knew more than our teacher. Our teacher had been there. He had crawled on his belly through the jungles of southeast Asia. He could point out the inaccuracies of the firefight scenes in Platoon because he had been in the middle of the real thing. He could tell us that it was true that our leaders had supplied them with crappy M-16s that jammed and cost men the seconds they needed to protect themselves or their friends. The students that stomped out were slates just like me. Their slates were covered in indelible ink. Their ideas were like permanent tattoos not to be altered and as a result they walked out of the best class ever.  Other students just stopped coming. They were probably quietly disgruntled or just not interested. Half way through the semester we were down to about forty from the original 100.

Those of us that kept showing up had started sitting close together toward the front of the room. I had a regular spot on the front. I had started on my project. I was testing a theory from a sociology class that suggested the popular culture prevalent in society reflected the political state of the country. I enlisted the help of my brother who had a large record collection and some nice recording equipment. The research entailed logging the major events of the Vietnam War and comparing the timeframe of those events with songs in the top ten pop charts according to billboard magazine. Then I would record my voice narrating the events over samples of the songs and demonstrate the relationship. The correlation exceeded my own expectations. I was excited about the finished product and turned it in early.

Terry rolled into the room with a jam-box in his lap. I wondered what was up. Was he going to play my tape? My stomach turned over. The thought made me nervous. I told myself that that he would not do that. It probably wasn’t as good as I had thought. He placed the tape player on the dais. He said, “Before we discuss the next film I want to tell you about a project that was turned in early by one of your classmates.” My face heated up. Oh Lord. I hoped he was talking about someone else’s project. Sort of. I also hoped that he was talking about my project. He went on, “Someone in this classroom has turned in the best project I have ever received.” Holy Crap! Could he be talking about me? That would be a first. Surely it was someone else. Then he started describing the project. My project. I was breaking out in a nervous sweat. I thought he was going to say my name. He didn’t. He told the class that he had listened to it several times. He talked about how much the music from that era had meant to him. Then he played it. LOUD! He was smiling. He was snapping his fingers to the music. I was shifting between ecstatic at his enthusiasm and then completely embarrassed every time my nasally sounding voice came back in over the music.

He played the whole thing. When it finished the class burst into applause!  Now I wanted him to say my name. He didn’t. I caught the eye of the girl who sat beside me. I gestured to myself. She mouthed, “That was you?” I nodded. She whispered, “Wow. You’re like Walter Cronkite.”  Best compliment I had ever gotten!

I didn’t start out in Terry’s class a tabula rasa. I had words and phrases. I had images. I had music. But his class didn’t just add new information to my slate. He taught me that I was an ever expanding canvas. New space was being created all the time. Clean, white space to paint colorful new ideas. Blank space not just to record music but to recognize its power. I learned that ideologies were not meant to be permanent tattoos. I learned to find confidence in my voice. And that I could use my voice to speak up in the hope that there will be a day when we come into this world and it etches only the word LOVE on our slate. That our world will not even have a need for the word PEACE because it has no opposite.   

More about Dr. James "Terry "Frazier: 

https://www.upi.com/Archives/1988/05/22/Terry-Frazier-who-lost-his-legs-during-the-Vietnam/2058580276800/

UPDATE:  I was able to reconstruct the playlist from the project by looking back through Billboards Top 100 for each year. Thanks to the internet and can give provide links to some of the songs: 

1961 - The first officially reported deaths in Vietnam of American soldiers. The song I chose was meant to reflect back on the innocence of the 50's and represent a generational shift at the same time. A hit in 1961, Travelin' Man by Ricky Nelson seemed to fit that criteria. Ricky Nelson was the son of Ozzie and Harriett Nelson known for a popular TV sitcom in the 1950's.     

1962 -The Kingston Trio, Where have all the Flowers Gone? - Folk Movement reflecting a shift toward social consciousness. 11,300 Military "Advisors" in Vietnam.

1963 - Blowing in the Wind  by Bob Dylan Folk movement continues along with a call for Social Justice. 16,000 Troops in Vietnam. 122 Americans killed.

1964 - Following the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Rolling Stones History of Rock and Roll stated that the Folk movement was over. It was to heavy and morbid for the country and it left a void in popular musi. That void was filled by The Beatles who had most of the Top Ten in that year. I chose two songs: A Hard Day's Night and Love Me Do.

1965 - Major Troop level increase in Vietnam from 23,000 to 184,000. An unlikely Top Ten hit clearly proved my theory about popular culture reflecting military and political events. Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire.

1966- 385,000 and 1967 - 485,000 Troops serving in Vietnam, New Folk Movement - songs included  Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel, and For What it's Worth by Buffalo Springfield.

1968- Tet offensive, 536,000 Troops in Vietnam - The Beatles turn political with Revolution.

This is me flashing Peace sign at age 6 in 1971.

1969 - Counter Culture Revolution in full swing - The Concert at Woodstock Country Joe and the Fish make a Anti War statement with Feels Like I'm Gonna Die and Broadway glorifies the Anti-War movement with it's production of Hair. There was a third song in the project for this year and it was one of my favorites  was a Top ten hit by Edwin Starr called War.

1970- This song is not in the Top 100 for 1970. But it represents an important event in the Anti-War Movement - Ohio by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.

1971- First major reduction in troops since the War began. Song meant to reflect change in mood of the United States - Joy to the World by Three Dog Night.

1972- Troop levels reduced to 24,000. The number one hit was a very long song called American Pie by Don McLean.

1973 - Cease Fire signed. Nixon declares "Peace". Joy to the World by Three Dog Night