Eric's Beijing Diary

Been fighting a cold lately. In Langfang, the student advisors were concerned about me (overly concerned) so one of them took me to the clinic, where they loaded me up with herbal medicine. Don't know if that stuff can cure the common cold, but it sure makes me feel better.

I go to Langfang every week to teach Technical English. They are very bright students, but a little shy. It's hard to get them to speak up. If I ask a specific question of a specific person, he or she will stand respectfully and try to answer. But this isn't what I want. I am trying to generate a free flowing discussion. Well, this week I departed from technology and gave them an essay called, "The Girl with the Nameless Face." That seemed to do the trick. Students who usually sat quietly suddenly became very animated and vocal. Something about the subject touched a nerve. Of course they are all studying technology, and the administration really wants them to be comfortable "doing technology" in English. That is the primary motivation which launched the Software Colleges Initiative in the first place. But young people just don't get visceral about technology. So I had to depart from the script a bit, and give them something that would bring them out a little. Here's the essay:




THE GIRL WITH THE NAMELESS FACE

By Eric Langager

I was eleven years old. We were living in the city of Honjo, on the Japan Sea coast. We were moving. Our house in rural Honjo had been destroyed by fire a few months earlier, and we were moving to Akita. We had taken up temporary residence in the unused home of another American family in Honjo. Although we had only been in that house for a few months, we had made friends with the kids in the neighborhood, and some of them had come to say goodbye.

I look back on that short period of time that we lived in that neighborhood, and the time we spent with the kids in the neighborhood. They would come over after school, to "hang out" with the foreign kids, and we, of course, were always happy to see them. We didn't really do anything that important--mainly playing hopscotch, or some other popular outdoor kids game, and talking. It is interesting that today I remember a group of kids, but I don't remember specific kids. This is probably because we only lived in that neighborhood for a very short period. So they didn't really stick in my mind as individuals.

Except one. She was the kid who never played with us. I guess I noticed her for this reason, and because she lived right across the street. I really couldn't figure out why she was so unfriendly. She would come home from school, and occasionally I would see her glance briefly in our direction. Then she went inside. But she never came over. She never crossed the street. She never joined the laughing, playing group of kids that gathered in front of our house. As I mentioned, I had no way of knowing why she never played with us. Perhaps her parents didn't like Americans. Or perhaps she wasn't interested in the trivial street games that occupied our time. At the time, I didn't spend a lot of time trying to figure it out. I guess I just thought maybe she was a little strange.

Until moving day. The truck was backed into our small yard. It was quite obvious to anyone who walked by that we were moving. We had told our friends about our move, and some of them had come to say goodbye. I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I was climbing a tree in the front yard, waiting for things to get started. I guess I wanted to take one last look around the neighborhood. For me, it was goodbye to a neighborhood where we had only lived for a few months. But it was also goodbye to a city where we had lived for the past two years, in our country home five minutes from one of the most incredible swimming beaches I have ever seen. We had a small plot of land in the country, and Dad had built a little red barn, which we filled with chickens, and pigeons and rabbits. In the fall, we would spend endless hours hiking with our dog through the pine forests along the sea by our house. In the winter, we would build forts in the attic, or strap on our skis, and head out across the countryside. In the spring, we waited impatiently while a hen in the barn warmed a bunch of eggs for what seemed an eternity. We played with the little chicks, and watched them grow. In the summer, we would walk to the beach with a sand bar that went out for maybe half a mile. We would pass the hours swimming in the warm waters of the Sea of Japan. It was a life we never wanted to be over. And then came the fire. It started in Dad's office, when a kerosene heating stove ignited. I don't know for sure what happened--perhaps a leak of some kind. Or perhaps the stove just got too hot. I don't know. But Dad's office soon became a raging inferno, and the rest of the house was beyond hope of being saved. Our life in Honjo was over.

So we were moving. Leaving it all behind. The new place we were moving to was not unfamiliar to me, because it was the site of the boarding school, where I had been living during the week for the past four years. So I would not have to deal with the adjustment that normally accompanies such moves. As I sat in that tree, there was neither the anxiety nor excitement that one normally feels about going to a new place. There was only the sorrow I felt at the thought of leaving a place that I somehow knew would never again be my home.

And then I saw her. I mean the kid from across the street. She was running across the street to our house! Needless to say, I was quite surprised at this, and didn't know what to think of it. But what happened next left me absolutely flabbergasted. Without knocking, she opened the door to our house and ran inside! The sight was so completely unlike what one would expect from a polite Japanese, that I couldn't quite believe it was happening. A split second later she darted out of our house, leaving the door to slam behind her, and ran back to the safety of her house as if she were in peril for her life!


Confused, and still quite astonished by the sight, I climbed down from the tree and headed for the house. When I entered the "genkan," my father was standing holding a small package that had been left by the girl across the street. Inside the package were two little pencil boxes, one for my sister Melody, and one for me. Why? Why did she give us these gifts? We had never done anything for her. What motivated her to go to this trouble for a couple of kids she didn't even know, and would never see again?

All things are not as they appear. She had never played with us. But oh, how she had wished she could have! She had never been our friend. But she had wanted so many times to bridge that gap--never quite daring, and never quite knowing how. Of course, we never invited her, but we never invited anyone. Kids don't need invitations. But she did. She needed an invitation. Kids are different. They are not all the same. She was too proper to impose herself on folks without their consent. She was....well, I will just say it again simply: She needed to be invited. Instead, we shrugged our shoulders and wondered why she didn't come over.

Now we were leaving. We would never see her again. We would not write letters--we didn't even know each other. She had never been our friend, yet, in some ways, she was the best friend we never had. So many kids came to play. But only one of them brought a gift. The little girl with the nameless face. Who was she? I don't know. Why didn't she play with us? I don't know. What wall, or obstacle, or secret fear kept her from bridging the gap? I don't know. But she proved herself to be a deeper, richer personality than all of the others. All things are not as they appear.

1. Why do you think this little girl didn’t want to play?

2. Have you ever been in a situation where you felt “left out” of a group of kids? Describe your feeling?

3. What do you think we could have done differently that might have included this little girl in our activities?

4. Do you think she really wanted to play with us? Are there some kids who would rather be by themselves?

5. If you were me, and you had a chance to meet this girl again, what would you say to her?

6. What kinds of things can parents or other adults do that can help make sure that children are not “left out.”

7. This essay is about a little girl. But what about "grown ups?" Do they ever feel "left out?" Do you ever feel "left out?"

8. What is your approach when you feel that you are not being included in a group you would like to be part of?

9. What kinds of things make any of us identify with one group over another? Aren’t we all human? Then why do we think in terms of "us" and "them?"

10. What implications does this essay have for larger groups, like countries. Are there ever situations where a whole nation of people can feel "left out?" What can be done about this?