How to Learn Fifteen Languages at Once

Work at the MTC.

When I was nineteen I started working at the Missionary Training Center. If you don't already know, the MTC is a magical place in Provo, Utah where Mormon missionaries come to learn how to teach and speak a foreign language before being sent to their missions all over the world. I never went on a mission, but the MTC has a special place in my heart.

My job was to put on a uniform, pull my hair into a bun, snap on some latex gloves, and assist in the proper care and feeding of some 2,000 missionaries. I cooked food, I served food, I washed dishes. And after the lights went out and the feeble-hearted went home, I learned the true meaning of dirty with my real brothers. The few. The proud. The Night Custodians. But that's another chapter.

It didn't take me long to realize that this job was the shiznit. I mean, what other job lets you meet thousands of single guys, learn every language on the planet, eat leftover cookies, AND get paid??

I loved interacting with the missionaries. They basically have no contact with the outside world except through you, their loyal lunch lady. I know this because A) I was constantly asked the scores of sporting events (to which I never knew the answer), and B) flirting with so many boys while wearing so little makeup has never been so easily achieved in the history of men and women.

I believe I ended up writing letters and emails to a solid baker's dozen of elders that I met while serving their food and washing their dishes. Couldn't resist the hair net. You know who you are.

But I wasn't just in it for the addresses. Or the cookies. My real motive was becoming a linguist.

Often when I handed some strapping young lad a plate of tots, he'd say, "Gracias" or "Merci" or "Xie Xie." Oh! What a fun game! I started asking what the proper response was. "Denada!" "De rien" "Bu ke chi!"

After a while I'd try to beat them at their own skills. Even if they said thank you in English, I'd respond in their appropriate language, with something sassy like, "I like your necktie." Then one day I decided I really wanted to learn something in every language.

I began to recognize what language their name tags were written in. Turns out Asian alphabets are way easier to distinguish than European ones. So, I got pretty familiar with Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Thai, Cambodian, even Mongolian. Not that they were easier to learn, but I felt more confident passing some dude and saying, "Joom Reap Suah!" if I could tell his name tag was in Cambodian.

It helped that most of my coworkers were foreigners or returned missionaries, so I could mooch lessons off them, too. That's how I learned the really fun stuff. Like, "Fang ma guo lai!" (Chinese for come fight me), "Mais beijos!" (Portuguese for more kisses), "Quitate la ropa!" (Spanish for take off your clothes!) and some even worse things in Samoan.

By the end of my first year of work, I was a little obsessed. I always carried a pen and scrap paper in my pocket. I'd ask missionaries how to say something and I'd write it down phonetically and try to memorize it. An Elder Claflin taught me loads of French. Elder Jolley taught me some Mongolian, and Gaffney Bulgarian. Elder Boyer used to practice Chinese with me every single day. One time he lost me in a full on conversation and said, "Oh sorry, I forget you don't actually speak Chinese."

The sweetest moment for me was when an entire district of Taiwan-bound elders presented me with a Mandarin Book of Mormon and Hymn Book they had signed. Another was when my Guatemalan coworker tenderly hand-wrote for me all the lyrics to Gasolina.

All mushiness aside, some things did suck about my job. One was, no matter how many missionary friends I'd make, they ALL left eventually. Every two months or so I'd have to start all over. Even my loyal friends serving their entire two years in the MTC had to go home one day.

And, unfortunately, I found that my lofty goal of picking up twenty plus languages simply en las calles wasn't super realistic. Even at the MTCizzle. Maybe if I'd put all that effort into one single language, I would be decent at it.

But hey, I still have all my notes and dirty scraps of paper, written in thirteen languages by homies helping a sister out. And I love that nearly every time I meet someone who speaks a foreign language, I can say at least one word or phrase to them, usually more. And they always smile.

Being a cafeteria girl wasn't my dream job. It sure didn't help my resume. I didn't make a lot of money. I didn't even date any of my missionaries. But I ate lots of cookies. And I had one hell heck of a time.

Ganbei

A Taste of China: Part 1

People ask me how I liked the food in China. My friends can tell you that when I left for China, adapting to the food was not on my worry list. I love almost all Asian food, and no, not Panda Express. I liked to think I'd been exposed to some real Chinese food as a regular visitor to some of the best D-grade-health-inspection non-English-speaking restaurants that NYC Chinatown has to offer.

The first time "fish-balls" were served in the cafeteria, I felt really cultured when I could explain to the rest of the group, "It's like they take a bunch of different fish meat, roll it into a ball, and boil it!" But even for fish-ball lovers like me, China had it's fair share of raunchy meals. Here's a sample platter of some cafeteria food in China, categorized for your pleasure.

First, the GOOD.

Behold; a Chinese cafeteria school lunch. These are good meals. I had a reputation for spending almost a full hour in the cafeteria eating on days like this.

I was a shrimp hoarder. Most people felt taking the time to sheer the shrimp was "not worth it." I did my duty and ate everyone else's shrimp and created my own rice/veggie/shrimp bowls. 

Next: Sad, but not Bad.

This was the catered lunch on field trip day. 

The Peek-a-Boo's. 

Last but not least, the "What the hell did I just eat?" category:

This is me trying to eat a chicken foot. It tastes alright, but it's difficult to chew when the little girl's un-manicured toenails are scratching your cheek.

A Word on Paparazzi

Maybe you haven’t heard: Chinese people love taking pictures of Laowai - foreigners in China. So basically I’ve been living the life of an undercover celeb for the past two months. 

I’m impressed by the boldness strangers have, asking for my photo. But I love when guys try to be sneaky about it. Like they just happen to be using their phone at that angle directed straight at me, and that darn light won’t stop flashing.

So that’s when I strike my signature sexy pose. And they're caught. They blush. Then they ask me to pose again, this time with their girlfriend/spouse/child/infant/grandma/smoking buddy, and then of course with them.

We started a game called “take pictures of people taking pictures of you.” Like this bus driver for example. No, not our bus driver. He’s driving a bus next to ours.

But this, THIS is when you know it’s bad.

One rainy morning in Yangshuo I walked into a bakery. While browsing the sweet delectables, I noticed a table of middle-aged Chinese people watching me. “Excuse me,” said a woman at the table holding a large camera. She motioned me over.

Here we go again.

Right as I was about to say, “Sure I can take a photo with you,” she asked, “Is this you?”

I looked at the camera screen and saw a picture of me from a few days earlier. I was doing my signature sexy pose while hiking in Longji, a mountain village in the middle of nowhere. They have not one, but oodles of pictures of me on their camera. For REAL?! 

“You make me feel like a celebrity!” I said.

“Yes!” they agreed, “We really like you!”

A similar experience happened in here in Changzhou, when a girl showed me pics of me she had on her phone from weeks ago. Creepy? or Awesome? I say awesome. 

I just wonder…what do they do with these pictures? “Hey dude, check out this white girl I saw at the grocery store.” “Ahhh…Ni Hao Ma.” [in a sultry Chinese voice] 

Is it really that exciting? Maybe I’ll start asking for photos with every Asian person I run across in America and see how it goes. 

Easter in China

Happy Easter, world. It’s been a fun weekend in China.

On Saturday Derek and I took a bus headed toward Hong Mei Park. On the way, we passed a miniature Great Wall and theme park and got off to explore that instead. First we found some nice public exercise equipment to tool around on, then wandered into a gas station to satisfy Derek’s coca-cola addiction.

Just as about five grungy gas station attendants were closing in on us with their rambling Chinese, I hear “Teacha Kristen!” One of my cute little 3^rd graders, Angela had seen me from outside on her way to the Zoo and ran into the store to give me a hug.

We continued on about ten feet, and I noticed a tiny puppy chained up outside. Derek said, “Do not touch that dog.” So I petted and played with my new furry friend, whose name I found is WaWa. While petting the dirty gas station dog, I turned around to see Derek on a basketball court, dunking the ball while a dozen sweaty guys “ooh” and “aahh” his tall white boy skillz. Ball so hard.

Eventually we made it to an overpriced “theme park”  but instead of going in, posed for pictures with mobs of junior high school students on a school trip outside the gates. I even signed some autographs.

We then wandered to the park, made some friends, bought a kite, and scored front row seats to Chinese COPS. Today’s episode featured an officer playing tug-of-war with a screaming lady over a kite, who in the end kicked HIS butt, or rather, she swung the giant wrapped up kite right at his rump.

Easter Sunday

Easter morning went like this: I woke up at 5:50 am, left at 6. Waited at the freezing bus stop for 30 minutes. Got the train station at 7:30, enjoyed a hearty Mcdonalds breakfast. On the train at 7:55am.

Arrived at Suzhou train station 8:30 am. 

Then with my over-confident “Trust me I lived in New York” attitude, I convinced everyone that a bus with the correct number, headed in the direction of our stop, would actually GO to our stop. Silly Kristen. By 10 am, the last of our group finally made it to the Hiatt’s house for the last half of Easter sacrament meeting.

After church we were treated to another delicious pot-luck and mingle. Our branch has a wonderful smattering of expatriates and visitors, from near and far. Some take trains and busses and subways to church. Others squeeze a family of five on a single moped. This week we had a family of visiting relatives from India, who had never been to a Christian church before. I love them all.

Our awesome tour guide and ward member, Brother Hiatt, led me and a few others on a scenic 9 mile bike ride around a lake in Suzhou. I practiced riding an e-bike for a while too, so you could say I am one step closer to my goal of obtaining my motorcycle license. (Last time I rode one of those mopeds I nearly killed myself, the dude I was with, and a parked car.)

Just as we were preparing to sit down and watch what I’m sure was a gut-wrenching documentary, Brother Hiatt offered to take whoever wanted on the e-bikes to “somewhere cool.” So Derek and I joined him on a speedy journey dodging cars, busses, bikes, and people, to a REAL Chinese market.

Seriously the place he took us was the first time I felt like I was in third world China, a narrow maze of food mongers and grocery shoppers festering under a canopy of blue tarps.

If anyone out there likes to complain about where your food really comes from, this is the place for you.

I thought I saw (and smelled) a lot back when I walked through NYC’s Chinatown on the daily. Such a fool to believe. In REAL Chinatown, we encountered every type of animal and every type of body part/organ you can imagine hanging by hooks, dripping blood onto the street. We saw live birds, frogs, snakes, eels, turtles, fish of every kind being scaled and gutted alive. And of course there was tons of fresh produce with freakish things like snap peas longer than my hand.

The phrase “eat fresh” took on a new meaning when I visited the chicken stand. Select a chicken or duck from the cage, and within 5 minutes a cheery, smiling woman will slaughter it, steam it, remove it’s feathers and head, clean out the guts and any eggs she may find (the prize inside the cereal box), and give you fresh bag of poultry. All right in front of your very eyes. Yum.

China has verified one thing for me: I have a very strong stomach.

 

Another dodgy e-bike ride, car ride, and train ride later, we arrived back in Changzhou. We were about to get on a bus, when someone said, “Is Derek here?”

Negligent Sister of the Year Award goes to Kristen, for not realizing her brother was still asleep somewhere on the train we got off of 20 minutes ago. All we knew was this: he has no phone, he has no passport, he knows no Chinese, and he sleeps like a rock. And we had no idea where that train was headed. Oops.

A few of us spent an hour trying to communicate with the train station authorities with conversations like this: “Our friend fell asleep. Please call this train. Wake him up. Send him to Changzhou.”  “Oh, understand. How many tickets you want?”

At last we were told that he was no longer on the train, so we got a taxi home hoping for the best. We thought we’d be sneaky and fit 6 people in a taxi, but that pissed off our driver. When we tried to bribe him he was even more enraged, which was one time I’m glad I can’t understand Chinese.

So Bryan, Kayla, and I found a new taxi driver, and showed him our address. It took another hour, an incorrect destination, a roundabout freeway route, 105 Yuan, and some yelling to finally get home.

Just when I’d been thinking how much my mother could NEVER find out about Derek going missing, I open my door to see him chillin on my bed, checking his twitter as usual. Happy Easter, Jerk.

Thoughts on China: Week One

Nice to meet you, Asia. I love you.

Granted right now I am still in the honeymoon stage where everything is wonderful, but it really is wonderful. 

There is a “big city” feel to Changzou and the cities I’ve been to, but it’s not all jammed together like the tenement-style housing of New York. Subways and train stations are hospital-clean, haven't seen any sewer rats yet. There are wide streets, open spaces, rivers, boats, scooters and rabbits- little three-wheeled taxis.  The school we live in has a pretty campus, and my room is bigger and nicer than anywhere I've lived in the past year. Cafeteria food is hit or miss, and street food is especially bomb diggity. Everything here is, as my friend from this video likes to say, SO CHEIP! Food, clothes, massages, gadgets, bus rides, stuff, junky stuff, nice stuff, weird stuff, everything is cheap.

Big realization #1: My Chinese is BU HAO. 

China, yes, finally I can put my favorite Chinese phrases to use. I thought I knew enough of the basics to get around. But the first time I tried to buy something from a market, I choked. I forgot everything I knew and had to use sign language just to remember my basic numbers 1-20. 

I HATE being the stupid white American. 

The group asks me to translate for them a lot, and since I can’t read or write character, and understand less than a quarter of what people say, I’m pretty much useless. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know a lick of Chinese, and I could walk around in blissful ignorance like them. But no, I stress myself out trying to understand and remember a language I picked up working at the MTC and flirting with Asians. 

Good news is, I’m learning every day and it can only get better from here.

If the Chinese had a sleep number, it would be negative 10.

I understand if you grew up eating chicken feet and liver regularly, you would like how it tastes. But sleeping on a plank of wood? Given a choice between laying on something hard or laying on something squishy, wouldn’t you choose something squishy, no matter your culture? Isn’t that like choosing a sweater made of pine needles vs. silk? I thought humans in general like to be comfortable. Maybe after another 16 weeks I will be sleeping like an angel.

The Black Hole

There are some Western toilets to be found in China. But our school, like most of China, has squatter holes. And it really isn’t that bad once you get the hang of it. One week in and I finally don’t sprinkle my feet any more. Go me! 

Bathrooms here are also BYOTP, which I don’t mind. But for all the advanced technology that exists in China, you’d think they’d find a way to flush the stuff. Maybe that’s how they’ve done it for thousands of years, keeping a sack full of dirty poo rags next to the squatter? Is that a great Chinese tradition we wouldn’t want to break? But then again, it forces you to be diligent in your trash-emptying chores.

I'm a teacher, what?

I never thought in a million years I’d be an elementary school teacher. But here I am, teaching 3^rd and 4^th graders English. What they didn’t prepare me for was how to make the little punks to behave, i.e. not punch each other, not throw things at each other, not scream and cry, not pull out plastic toy guns to shoot me, and not speak Chinese constantly.

Go Big or Go Home

At first glance everything in China is loud and over the top. Upbeat Asian techno music is blasted in the streets, at the store, and at the school. We wake up to the sounds of T. Swift and Jordin Sparks every morning at 6:30am.

Packaging designs are bright, flashy, and have ridiculous images of a person holding an [insert product here] like a winning lottery ticket. I can almost hear their little Chinese voices shouting for my attention as I walk down the grocery store aisles.

Occasions that wouldn’t be a big deal in the US are a huge production here. Like our welcome-to-Changzhou-ceremony at the school’s assembly.  The kids gave us gifts, I gave a speech, the kids taught us calligraphy, and there was a news crew and plenty of photographers. 

China LOVES performances. We’ll be expected to sing and dance for students and parents on a minute’s notice, so we always have to have something prepared. Friday we did some Harlem Shaking for the school. Sitting through the first part of the award ceremony for the kids I felt more pumped up than I did at Disneyland. They just have a way of making everything so exhilarating! And then these six-year-old boys performed J. Bieb's "I Wirr Neber Say Neber" and I almost died.

So China can be loud, dramatic, and overly elaborate, and I love it all. Because why shouldn’t everything we do be awesome? As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do Epic Sh*t.”  Thank you China, for reminding me that I’ll never get what I really want out of life by settling for just “good enough.” 

Guess the Ghetto

Here are some of the trashiest things that my best homie4lyfe, Jake, and I have ever done. I'll give you a 99 cent rotisserie chicken if you can guess which were Jake, which were me, and which were both of us. 

1. Hung out in Burger King for four straight hours to use the wifi

2. Poured milk into a cereal bag, and drank it on the walk to school 

3. Drove from Denver to Fort Collins butt naked

4. Sprayed Febreze® in armpits because they were eh-stinky

5. Ate food out of trash cans and off the floor

6. Ate left-overs from an abandoned food tray in the airport

7. Wore the same pair of underwear for multiple weeks

8. Returned something to Goodwill for two dollars

9. Squatted in a house with no water or electricity

10. Lived out of a van for three months

11. Dug popcorn bags and drink cups out of the movie theater trash and got refills

12. Walked to campus to steal a toilet paper roll because they were out and it was Sunday

13. Showered at the RB for a month when their water got cut

14. Swapped tags at Savers for a better price

15. Ate regularly at a "D" grade Chinese restaurant 

16. Checked status of tampon while driving

17. Snuck bread rolls from a restaurant in their bag

18. Used roommates and other random people's toothbrushes and razors

19. Made out with someone they met on Facebook 

20. Spent quality time in craigslist's "missed connections" section

21. Drank from water bottles they found on a hiking trail

22. Charged phone in electricity outlets on people's christmas lights

23. Flirted with a butcher to get a rotisserie chicken for 99 cents

24. Put a tupperware full of milk in their backpack and all their stuff got ruined

25. Went dumpster diving at Krispy Kreme and gave boxes of donuts away as gifts
26. Used the floral aisle of Walmart for a topless photo shoot

27. Claims they saw Rasputin at Taco Bell
28. Took a nap on a shelf in Walmart
29. Washed their hair in a plastic ziploc bag
30. Used tweezers they found in a public bathroom

Commercials That Almost* Make Me Cry

*Big girls don't cry.

P&G Olympics
I almost cry because deep down, I think kids are neat.



Dodge Freedom
I almost cry when my buttons burst with American pride.



Meth Project
I almost cry from fear.



After Hours Athlete
I almost cry because it's so damn beautiful.

White Scars

Skin has a way

of stifling

stories once

told loudly

through the megaphone

of dark red wounds.

Like one finger

raised to closed lips,

hush

it’s too scary

for the kids.

But ghosts don’t die,

their stories

faint white scars

that always stain your skin.

And I can’t forget

a time of fresh cuts

and the days before

you put them there. 

Little Scharfie

Found a picture of me as an eight year old, drawing away...and a few of the things I was creating.

I had a whole series of comics called The Chinese Guy and the Old Lady. 

I loved kitty cats, almost as much as a I do now.

And my personal favorite: the pig slut.