Feb. 25, 2004, Guangxi Province, China. We spent much the afternoon in a small village somewhere northwest of Guilin. To some extent, small towns are the same everywhere. This one is about 600 years old, and I think some of the original inhabitants still lived there.
That afternoon was an education.
Our translator walked us down one of the main alleys in town, with stops at the local herbalist’s shop, the community bulletin board/chalkboard, a “manufacturing shop,” the village woodworker’s house, and more insights than I can recount here. One of my best memories, though, was as we walked back toward Mr. Qiu (pronounced ‘chew’) and the minivan. School let out, and we were walking against the current as the kids streamed home.
The “manufacturing shop” was a house where a woman sat and wove hats, baskets, or whatever from reeds. This woman was standing at her door, watching anxiously toward the oncoming kids. Two little girls stopped at her door. She spoke to them both for a moment looking very stern, then they nodded. She dropped the fake frown, got a huge grin on her face, and bent down to give the two a hug. She noticed us and our video camera, then nodded and smiled before pulling the door closed behind them.
Another little girl came running down the street, all smiles. She stopped for a moment next to my beloved, who was doing the filming that afternoon. When my wife showed her the view through the tiny monitor, she burst out laughing like that was the funniest thing she had ever seen. We said goodbye (zai jian!) and she ran on her way home, looking like every six-year-old I’ve ever seen running back to a home like nothing I’d never seen.
When we reached the town square, there were a set of older women standing with the toddlers and a few others I’m guessing would otherwise be latch-key kids. The boys were rambunctious, and one threatened us with a wooden rifle (but I was brave; I stood ready to take a splinter to save my wife if needed), while the girls were holding hands and talking, singing, chattering…
If you just saw the kids, and didn’t see the village, you’d have a hard time placing them.
The girls did not appear neglected, and the welcome they received from parents along our walk was no less enthusiastic than that of the boys.
This was China, the real country, the real people. Anyone can carry on an act for an hour or two; but this is consistent with what we hear from friends who teach English in China, and others who have been there for extended periods.
I’m not saying women are treated any better there than through the rest of Asia.
What I am saying is that “unwanted” does not match with what I saw.
I saw “loved.”