你好吗？

When I was teaching English in Korea I was requested at Hyundai. Corporations in Korea are styled after the Japanese idiom. Everything on a function approaching zaibatsu. Salarymen; a second family in the company.

Sitting at the long tables, eating monkfish and rice from thin stainless steel dishware in the cafeteria one noon I was told this joke by a student–

Q: How many Koreans does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: Four. One to screw it in and three to call Japan for instructions.

The place was depressing and while I had some great students I also had dozens who slept through classes and were only showing up to get company credit. An attempt to head for middle management. I failed almost all of them.

The two other aids to higher career paths were Japanese, obviously, and Chinese, obviously.

The Japanese teacher was an entirely dishy—and unlikely representative of known local mammalian dimensions—Miss Li. “An” not “the” because I must have met 2,000 Miss Lis in Korea; neck and neck with Miss Pa(r)ks.

The Chinese teacher was actually Chinese. A cultured, polite, natty fellow. I ate lunch with the two of them because he was pleasant and she was, I think I might have mentioned, dishy. No English though or I’d certainly be telling a story about her instead.

The Chinese professor—I’m embarrassed I can’t remember his name… or was it also Lee…? ah, clan culture—insisted on making me pronounce Chinese words and phrases. Korean is nearly monotone and he was plagued by his students’ utter inability to capture any Chinese accent at all.

English, while much easier on the tongue than Chinese, is still miles ahead of Korean in lingual-aural coordination. So, I was the guinea pig to at least give him some little bit of satisfaction in getting someone to speak some Chinese sensibly.

I got «你好吗？» (roughly: ni hao ma) down pretty well then. It wasn’t from lack of trying either. I think he had me do about 100 call and responses with it while he gave feedback to tweak my tone and accent.

That was years ago. Tonight I went to Target® with my kids to get Veri something to reward her for her first dental visit and her perfect behavior and bill.

Going in, we met an elderly Chinese couple with their English speaking daughter. They were focused on us. The couple freaking out about how pretty Veri is. I gave them my best «你好吗？» and that was the ice-breaker they needed.

Through their daughter they asked if they could take a picture with Veri.

Now, if a Caucasian or obviously American man of any race requested a photo with my kid while sidling up to her, I’d probably put a palm in his chest and set him smartly on his ass for answer.

China, like Korea, is traditionally a Confucian culture. Family is terribly, really terribly in some cases, important. Children are adored. They are the focus of the family while young. It’s why Chinese kids so totally kick ass in academics.

In Korea, and I’m sure in China too, it’s not unusual to touch others’ children on the head or hands. Even a stranger might be asked to watch a child for a moment in a train station or such. I miss that so much. So dearly.

I asked Veri if the photo-op was okay and she said, “Yes.” I didn’t give it a thought. Just left it to her. So they hoisted her up in the air while the daughter worked a digital camera. Veri gave one of her patented disappearing-lips smiles but still managed to look nice.

God, they were happy. Saying «谢谢» and waving and saying bye and saying «谢谢» and waving.

I wouldn’t have bothered to write it up but I’m still sort of smiling about it and I’d like to be able to read this again later when I’ve forgot the feeling. Get it back. Just as I know they will when they see the photo at home in Beijing or Taipei.