I. I’m totally at a college party.

It’s true!

I’m not in college any more.

I’m not even in America.

But I’m pretty sure I’m at a college party.There’s something about the atmosphere. The people there. The dopey guy sitting at the corner grinning because he’d just taken acid and smoked some pot. The sporty girl who wears NorthFace fleeces and drinks more than guys. The nice, gentle-faced tall guy. The asshole who constantly tries to be the center of attention but doesn’t really succeed.

Looking at all these people I thought to myself:

“I feel like I’m back in college again!”

I could even imagine which fraternity or sorority they’d belong you if they went to my school.

The weird thing is, I am sitting in an apartment in Beijing. I am sitting in an apartment in Beijing surrounded by kids who could so easily have been a Sigma Delt, a SigEp or a ChiGam.

?

I guess this is what some people don’t realize about going abroad. Or at least I didn’t realize it.

It’s not necessarily that exotic. You can find yourself wound up at a (sort of) college party.

During the day, I travel about an hour to the outskirt of Beijing and live my life in another world. I teach English to little immigrant kids. Over there, nobody else speaks English and the definition of ‘toilet’ is a room with a few holes in it that don’t go anywhere. Sometimes I see rats running around in the holes. It’s pleasant.

My day at the school is probably what you would expect from someone who says they are volunteering to teach English at an impoverished school in Beijing. I have fun. I try to blend in. The kids make fun of my crappy Chinese.

When I’m there, I feel pure; like I’m doing some good for the world.

But every afternoon, after class is over I get on a bus and head back to the other side of town. I go back to the “expat” womb where I live and I go to parties full of American kids. I go back to places where you can get stone-baked pizza and Belgian beer. Somehow it feels wrong. Like I’m cheating on those little immigrant kids.

The only evidence that we are really in Beijing while I’m at this party is these two local Chinese girls that one of the guys brought along. They are just sitting there in the corner of the room. One of the girls had had too much to drink (two drinks to be exact but she’s Asian so, you know) and is already passed out. Her friend is next to her, smiling, unable to talk to anyone because she doesn’t speak English. And of course, we would never imagine speaking Chinese at a college party.

It’s quite a picture.

I feel like it’s somehow symbolic.

“The orient: passed out, ignored in the corner. Right in their own turf.”

Maybe I’m just thinking too much. Maybe I should just enjoy myself.

Tomorrow, I’ll get on a bus and ride for two hours and I’ll be in China again…

A random guy walks up to me.“Hey, we’re gonna start a game of Beruit. You in?”

Totally.

So there’s a piece of my China for you.

II. There’s an asshole sitting next to me.

There’s an asshole next to me at the party I told you about before. The one that’s like an American college party?

He’s been talking for quite some time now. He’s going on about this new drink he just invented.

“It’s like a tequila slammer! Only here, you use Baijiu and orange juice.”

Baijiu is a traditional Chinese spirit. It looks and tastes a little like vodka except it’s much much stronger. It’s very popular in China and anyone who has been here more than two weeks has probably heard of or even experienced it.

The asshole wants to export it to the States because it’s very cheap and can get you drunk in three seconds. He’s going to sell it with orange juice and call it The Shanghai Surprise! (exclamation point included). He’s standing up and giving instructions to the rest of the table on how to drink the Surprise!

“So first you take a shot of orange juice. Then you hold it in your mouth. Now don’t swallow until you’ve followed it with a shot of Baijiu. Don’t swallow…”

He chuckles.

“Never thought I’d ever tell anyone not to swallow.”

You’re such a dick.

And there’s plenty more where that came from.

“Of course I’ve been getting laid, I’ve been in Beijing four months how could I not?”

I overheard this comment some time earlier that night and had an incredible urge to kick the asshole in the balls.

I glance over at the two Chinese girls sitting passively on the couch. I wonder who brought them to the party and who they would be going home with that night.

That’s their sole purpose there; or at least, that’s what all the westerners at the party think they’re there for.

I’m annoyed with myself because I think that too and I’m not a westerner. I’m Asian. Not even Asian American – I’m a real Asian! I was born in Thailand and I still consider that home but I was educated in the west since I was young. That doesn’t make me western though. Just westernized I guess.

Back at our table, the asshole is sitting down now, retelling a story about how he slept with a Chinese girl the other night who turned out to be a real dominatrix in bed.“

At the club, you know she was just your regular cutesy Asian girl. She raises the peace sign when taking photos and seems all shy and shit. But that night, oh my God! I felt like I was being raped. She controlled all the moves…”

The guys laugh.

I’m still staring at the two local girls sitting at the couch. One girl has already passed out, as I mentioned. She drank too much.

Why didn’t I go and sit next to them? I can speak Chinese; I could have easily gone over and talked to them or at least asked how the passed-out girl is doing. Instead, I ignore them like everyone else at the party.

Maybe, deep down inside, I’m afraid I would blend in too well? I’d done so well at being a part of the party. The American college party. I wouldn’t want to ruin that for myself.

In fact, I did even better than be “part of the party”. I stood out. I have an English accent! My parents were smart enough to send me to English boarding school since the age of 12 so I learnt the ways of integrating with westerners and I can even stand out among Americans because of my cool accent.

Double points for me!

If I go over there and speak Chinese, I might as well just be a local. There’d be three Chinese girls sitting in the corner of the room. Maybe someone would think that they could just take me home that night and I’d turn into a dominatrix in bed? Maybe they’d think I’d raise the peace sign when they take a photograph of me?

I do do that when I take photos. Sometimes. When I’m with my Asian friends. But I wouldn’t do that here.

Instead, I stayed at the table and listen to the asshole talk about his breakthrough sexual experiences.

So much for my multi-culturalism.

III. I’m quite stoned. I became quite disturbed by the party so I asked the dopey guy who had taken some acid earlier that night to roll me a joint. A fat one.

So now I’m stoned.

Everything is a little hazier. I can’t stop smiling. I know I look ridiculous.

The cute tall guy has finally positions himself next to me. I noticed him since he came into the apartment. Apparently he lives here.

I pretend to be enrapt in the conversation going on at the table. The one led by the asshole.

The cute guy makes a side joke about something he said. I turn to him at laugh.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever met you,” he says.

We have contact!

We introduce ourselves. Shake hands, exchange names etc. Then I ask him what he’s doing in Beijing. Standard procedure. Beijing-Expat talk.

He tells me he came here after he graduated from college and is teaching English here.

“Oh really? Which college did you go to?”

“Middlebury.”“Cool. I went to Dartmouth.”

Small New England colleges. We have a connection!“

Oh really, do you know….”

He names a random sorority girl in my year who I took a Freshman Seminar with. I enthusiastically reply that I do. Then I name a few random Middlebury kids that I know. Yes, even in a foreign country small talk doesn’t change.

After a while, he blurts out:

“Can I ask where your accent is from?”

Oh here we go.

hen I have to go into the whole story about how I’m actually Thai (well, half Chinese) and that I went to school (not lived there, totally different) in England for a while; lived in China for a year and then went to college in the States for four years.

Thing is, I’ve now become quite good at picking and choosing how I want to portray myself. I could have just hidden my accent and ignore the English bit all together. Or I could have steered the conversation away from “where are you from?”. I’ve been quite sick of hearing people smirk when I tell them my hometown is “Bangkok”. You know? Bang….

Even better, I’m in Beijing volunteering at a school but then I’m going to work for this big consulting company. So depending on whether I think the person I’m talking to is money minded or not, when they ask: “what do you do?” I can either go:

“I’m volunteering at an immigrant school.”

Or

“Well, actually I’m about to become a consultant.”

Sometimes I test out what they are interested in by combining the two:

“I’m volunteering at an immigrant school but I’m actually going to be a consultant!”

So many ways to start a conversation! So many versions of me I could be.

The conversation with cute tall guy isn’t going to go very far tonight though. As I said, I’m quite stoned and therefore don’t want to talk too much in fear of blurting out something inappropriate. Also I’m pretty sure my eyes are all red and gooey. Not attractive!

I tell him I have to go home.“You know, you remind me of this actress,” he says, as I get ready to leave.

Oh?

“Yeah, she was in Crash. Erm… I don’t remember her name.”?

“Thandie Newton?”

“Yeah! Yeah, you remind me of her.”

The actress is half black. But she’s gorgeous. She has an English accent so I bet that’s why he thought of her. I don’t care! It’s the best compliment I ever got.

“Wow. Thanks!”

Now that’s something I’ve ever used to define myself with. Next time I should just start the conversation with:

“You know, someone once said I look like this half-black actress!”

That way I could skip the rest of the background information. It’d make my life much easier.