8. Guangzhou

Guangzhou is located at the very bottom of China. Unlike the mildness of the Southlands (Suzhou and Hangzhou), Guangzhou is exceedingly hot and crowded. We tried to tour the Pearl River on our first night there - it turned out to be nearly impossible, considering the mass of tourists. The subways stretched the possibilities of public transportation with their sheer human density; the escalators at the stations were rigged to stop when too many people tried to get on. 

Guangzhou is also known for its dim sum. As one of the former commercial capitals of China, it retains an impressive population and economic sector; it also has a much older vibe than the newer cities of Shenzhen and Shanghai. 

I made a friend from Guangzhou last summer. I’d contacted her early in June, asking if she’d be available when I came to her hometown. It felt surreal to see her again - last year, we’d been posed on the edge of uncertainty, in the hazy purgatory between college decisions and applications. Now, as we hugged each other and sat down to talk, things felt eerily calm. Truth be told, I felt a little awkward - I always stumbled over my Mandarin when talking with people of my own age. 

She’ll be attending the Imperial College in London next fall; she’d applied a variety of American and European schools. Apparently, she’d opted out of the infamous gao kao, or China’s college entrance exams. 

“Oh?” I said. “So you just don’t want to go to school in China anymore?” 

“No,” she said. 

I guess I couldn’t blame her: China’s gao kaos are notorious. In the U.S., test scores aren’t the defining factor in an application system that (supposedly) holistically evaluates grades, scores, letters of rec, extracurricular activities, and a slew of other variables. In China, seven tests at the end of senior year are the sole barrier between high school and college. 

Some say this is a reflection of China’s values, but I think it reflects China’s enormous population first and foremost. Application officers are simply overwhelmed by the number of students who apply every year. And this is even more applicable for middle school students - in Xi’an, reportedly, only 40% of middle school students test into high school. 

“So do you do any clubs?” I asked. “Or sports?” 

She shrugged. “Badminton,” she said. “But so does everyone.” I liked her for her authenticity - she was frank but not overbearingly so; she was very down-to-earth. “And we don’t really have clubs; school ends at five and we have two hours to ourselves before we go to tutoring.” 

“Yikes,” I muttered, as she described the tutoring sessions that would start from seven and last until nine at night. She had traveled to a town several hours away to take her AP tests and SAT’s. “I’d never be able to do that.” 

A strength of the U.S. education system that I came to appreciate during my time in China is its flexibility and (in certain schools) emphasis on creating a well-rounded citizen. The U.S. puts much of the power of education in the hands of the state and individual school systems. China, on the other hand, gears its education towards economic modernization, towards creating an efficient and able workforce. 

Neither approach is wrong. But for me, someone whose life centers around non-academic activities, I couldn’t imagine growing up in China. I’d never been a great test-taker, and China’s education system revolves on tests. 

“So what do you want to study in college?” I said. 

“Environmental engineering,” she said. “I wanna be a professor.” 

“Oh!” I said, smiling. “That’d be so cool. I might become a professor, too.” 

She looked at me with the kind of excitement that only comes with sharing an aspiration. As we babbled about the research we wanted to do and where we wanted to study abroad, I found myself relaxing; I found myself enjoying her presence. 

It’s a strange feeling, talking with a friend in Chinese, in China. In all my previous visits I’d only spent time with family - I’d vehemently resisted my parents’ urges for me to make friends with teens my age. A certain childish pride and the embarrassment of my own illiteracy had always kept me from socializing in China. 

But now that feeling disappeared. Our eager discussions of our futures seemed to bridge some unspoken distance between us - in a string of English, Mandarin, and the occasional Cantonese, we discussed everything from college to the tourism industry to Asian American culture to mental health. 

When my dad finally came to take me to dinner, I hugged her and promised to keep in touch. I felt light, almost beyond happy. 

We were having dinner at Hai Di Lao, one of the most acclaimed hot pot restaurants in China.

One of Guangzhou’s famous thunderstorms had started up. Waves of rainwater beat against the taxi as we honked our way through the streets; traffic lights and pedestrian blurred into a chaotic mass of noise and colors. 

We stopped before the restaurant. My dad shouted a thanks to the driver - we stumbled onto the street. 

The rain came thundering down; I laughed as the street blurred into smears of red and gold. Pedestrians jostled me, umbrellas a swarm of colorful plastic. Motorcycles puttered past, ferrying fruit hawkers and young couples through the deluge of cars and buildings. With each breath, I seemed to inhale the miasma that was Guangzhou. I couldn’t see anything before me; I couldn’t see anything behind.

And it felt perfectly blissful, getting lost in the downpour. 

And I realized this storm felt a lot like my experience in China: disorientating, wild, breathtaking. Maybe I should stop trying to make order out of my motherland; heavens knows it has enough of that. Maybe I should stop trying to take things so seriously.

Then Baba pushed me forwards. “Come on!” he shouted, his voice barely audible beneath the din of thunder and traffic. “Don’t just stand there!”

He took my hand and pulled me towards the restaurant.

Footsteps splashing blind, we ran.