Remembering Nanjing

One of the first and the most disillusioning things that struck me upon my arrival at Nanjing University in the late summer of 1988 was the system of corruption that was well in place, financed by Americans and enjoyed by Chinese administrators. Johns Hopkins U, which was sponsoring the program I was in, had purchased two vans for use by what was called "The Center" in Nanjing. But only one -- and that one gutted of all metering devices, radio speakers, etc. -- was seldom available to us. The driver used it for himself -- and one of the things he used it for was to remove one of the large speakers from the stereo system in the auditorium of the Center and either sell it or take it home. The other Van, we were told -- literally TOLD -- was for the private use of the president of Nanjing University. Although Americans in America were told funds went for students and faculty, they most certainly did not. First on the list of beneficiaries were the Chinese administrators and their functionaries. The advertisements for the place told of students and faculty dining together in the commons so they could get to know each other better. But oddly the top administrators were usually not there -- unless a delegation, a "circus" the students called it -- was visiting from Baltimore. We did not know where they dined, with the American "co-director" each night. Then one evening when I was walking through the hallway from my office, I thought I heard glasses tinkling in a large room off the dining room. and yet the hall lights were turned out in the building. I quietly walked down the darkened hall to a large room with double doors. I saw a flash of light through the crack in the doors. I looked in. There are a large table, with white table cloth and candles, were the American co-director, the Chinese functionaries and flunkies, and the president of Nanjing U, eating dinner, dining, while the kitchen staff in clean white jackets waited on them and poured wine. This was no doubt financed by donors in the US. A few days later I asked a friend working in the kitchen, Mei, how often this went on. She told me several times a week. They administrators had private dinners with the leading American. This was all hush hush, of course. During the second or third week of classes I asked my students why they did not underline in their textbooks or write in the margins. They looked at my stunned and said that there were five books(for the class of 25) purchased by Hopkins and placed on reserve in the library. The students had to check them out and return them and they were examined, the books, constantly by the library staff for markings. So I went to the American "co-director" and told him that for 20 years I'd taught in the US and that I was sure -- absolutely -- that the American publishers would give books to Chinese students if they were asked. His response was a hostile glare and the statement he would look into it. Three days later I wrote a cable to Scott Foresman publishers in Chicago telling them my problem and and asking for free text books. According to the rules I handed it to the secretary of the American co director. The next day it was returned to me with a note(that I still possess) informing me that it "is not the job of the Center to provide free books to students." So that evening I went to the Jinling Hotel in Nanjing and personally sent the cable to Chicago. One day later I got a return cable that asked, very simply, what do you need? I told them. One week later a huge pallet of books arrived at the Center -- air express from Chicago. Scott Foresman(God bless them) sent air express $200 of free new textbooks for each of my 25 students. My students were of course utterly delighted. But then there were problems. The Chinese and American administrators were utterly and completely livid with anger. I was told that if I was going to give free books to my students I should have had the books sent to the President of Nanjing University so he in return could "give them as gifts" to the students himself. The accusation was that I was seeking "favoritism" by getting free books for myself and putting pressure on other professors. My response was that if the books went first to the President of Nanjing University nobody would ever see them again, except of course on the local black market. That was one of my first wake up calls about the realities of American enterprises in China. There were more. Many more. I will post them.

Being Green (and brown)

The Dave Matthews band has been prominent in the past year, for some reason, in politics and in performances. Matthews is, he insists almost endlessly, very "green." And he supports green causes. He worships Al Gore. A couple of years ago Matthews' and his band appeared in Chicago. They had come on their own bus to the Windy City. One night, thinking no one was watching, the bus was driven to one of the bridges across the Chicago river and the sewage valve was opened an all of the band's shit was dumped over the side of the bridge and into the Chicago River. This might have gone unnoticed except for the sad fact that a dinner cruise was passing under the bridge at that very moment and all the sewage came down on the heads and tables of the diners. The police were called and the bus and its passengers detained.

Dave Letterman, a few nights later, said in his opening monologue, that a spokesman for Dave Matthews said it wasn't as bad as it seemed. It was, in fact, a political statement.  They were only trying, he said, to let tourists know what it felt like to be Cubs fans.

Private Person

I try to be a private person.  Writing, especially writing long narratives as I do, requires solitude.  And so out of necessity I pursue and embrace solitude.  This is ironic and paradoxical for a person so naturally gregarious.  Perhaps it is unusual for any individual.  But it is a necessity.  Finding the necessary balance between togetherness and loneliness I suppose is the key to happiness.  Or perhaps a key to happiness.  I do not know.  Who does?  I only know I have been happy.  And I have been unhappy.  Being happy is better.  As for breaking out of my solitude of writing my current book, Bad Moon Rising, I saw that a dear and sentimental friend had posted a blog here and I thought, what the hell.  Can't hurt can it?  So far, I've been correct.  But then again I am new to this site and this pursuit.  Let time prove me wise or unwise here.

I live in the heart of suburbia.  The one question friends ask me when they read my books and articles and see how I work is, Why do you live where you live?  Good question.  I am often unsure.  It did lead me of course to the book I am now writing on events in the Santa Clara Valley between 1969 and 1971, a twenty month period that saw several similiar homocides that were, at the time, blamed on Zodiac and on the Manson family.  Neither individual or group were responsible.  it's a good story.

On the other hand, I travel and I like to stay abroad. I am happy when I am leaving home and I am equally happy when returning home.  I fall into a groove here too easily.  This is a vast valley of emptiness.  Too much money.  Too few scholars.  An abundance of blandness.  And so I leave.  And so I return.

Why do I live where I live?  It is quiet.  Well, it was quiet until several months ago.  Quiet as a cemetery on a Thursday morning.  So quiet that friends who stay here sometimes comment that they cannot sleep because it is too quiet.  Go figure.  When you get here, there is no here, here. This is a place where high-tech companies give their in-house techies the afternoon off so everyone can shuffle off together to the newest Indiana Jones or Star Wars movie.  The hills around me are alive with McMansions inhabited by McPeople with lots and lots of McMoney. But quiet McPeople, all the same. McPeople who work, as the local news insists, "25 hours a day."  No doubt, they also give 110 percent on the job.  Quiet McPeople in frantic pursuit of a killer App. In the localspeak oxymoron: adult gamers!

Anyway, it is Tuesday.  It is cool. It is quiet.  Back to work.  Now where was I?