It's the showcase, last day of classes. Time to see where all their money's been going. I'm listening. All of us are sweating: parents, teachers, children. Been thinking of what to say about China. Lawrence is talking. I'm tuning out. He is the Dad 
of the boss, the Guanxi Man. What can I say about China? Bits by bits. My worst student passes gas noticeably. The children are turning blue trying to contain their laughter. They look up at me plaintively. I'm also laughing. They see Laoshi smiling, its okay to smile. But wait till we can scream. Till Lawrence shuts up long enough to indicate that its alright to wiggle, to clap, to pass gas, to laugh loud. When will that be? Got dinosaur stickers on each finger. Keep it Neat! on my index finger. The Chinese are extremely comfortable with these public displays. Impromptu long-winded speeches. The kids laugh. They display their lovable disgust by scotching up on their bottoms away from her. She cowers embarrassingly, laughing. Sticking stickers on yellow 8 by 11 sheets of paper. Had written permutations of the same note about 100 times "Sissi is a great student. Her English has improved so much this semester. Great Work." Sticker.
China has a Bright future.....shenme?...of this generation of bright and ambitious young generation." Said bright twice. Said generation again. But what can I say about China, I mean to myself. 
I am the solid girl. Drank Foreign Girl wine with Jackie. We are Foreign Girls. Bitter, medicine-y, that horrible Foreign Girl wine with "nut vitrions. long flavor-tasting " Full untouched glasses. Can't drink this, won't.
Everything is in the brainstorm stage. Nothing is write-downable...legible? Solid and can't get to the meat. "The Meat Comes Out in 
One Piece" I had written that in a sublime, dream, when I was 22. In love. It was ridiculous, but I was in love. What am I in now? nearly 25. I do know at the forehead of my thoughts, I have changed. For years its been increasingly hard to express what is happening, I mean if you ask me I can tell you, but to write what is happening. Will it get worse? I think it will only get worse. Deepak Chopra. I don't listen to him on a regular basis, but I did have the opportunity since recently downloading an inexhaustible supply of things to listen to, one of which is called "Sleep Learnings"...something about Ayruvedic philosophies of...shenme?
They're laughing too loud. I put my index finger 
over my pursed 
lips. I still have a sticker on my index finger. They laugh more. Be quiet I say with my raised eyebrows...
Chopra said that Michelangelo looked upon a hunk of amorphous marble and just hammered or what not until what was supposed to emerge, emerged. So he says that we can view ourselves in this way. There is a me to whittle down to. That I am not me but a "potential me", that my "masterpiece me" requires unleashing, that maybe its lying imprisoned beneath layers of crackable stone. It requires elbow grease and gumption, toward me. A labor which is self-love. A work of self-art!
Later that night, Ann in the most sincere goodbye speech I've yet to hear, said, "Because of Hannah's laugh I know that Hannah knows how to live a happy life." When I laugh, when I really 
let it rip, she must be looking down my big wide-open gullet to my masterpiece me! Have got Out-of this-World! on my thumb. This is me in China.
: )
A German business man in a bar told me once like it was advice to live by, "Their is a maddening, alien order here. Everyone here gets on the bus and off at the same time. Doors open and its just crazy. If you drop your bus pass, your bus pass is gone. The doors haven't closed before the bus has even left." A man whose obviously lost his bus pass. I've dropped something that 've yet to figure out what it is. They're clapping. I've taught them "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" in June. It's time to sing.
