Don’t forget: You can’t get off the plane looking like you’ve been in it for 30 hours. You put your suit on, tie, Axe, hairspray, immaculate. You’re not just any man anymore. Bank of Shanghai. 

You finally get to show everyone your golden plate, the grand title of Banker next to your name. Remember that one time your mother called you out for wasting your life as a clerk? The feeling you had when your father handed you that suit and told you “You were born to do more than deal with angry customers. You were born to be the man on top.” 

And so it is now. As you walk through the airport you reminisce about the many times you told your friends back home you’d be successful internationally. How they said you were just dreaming. You clench your fists and sigh. 

Walking your 6’2” body across an airport full of foreign people, you suddenly feel something you never felt at home before, something you loathe. Their piercing gazes stab your back, bringing you an intense sense of discomfort. 

You expected to stand out a little, but the feeling you get this time is nothing like the times you went to London or Luxembourg, where you could hide your foreignness- that is until you opened your mouth. You expected this. Your friends would always tell you stories about their time in China, about the *W* word, about the paranoia of being stared at, the surveillance. You knew what you were getting into, and yet. 

You rush to a cab and get to your new home. You stand in front of a series of white buildings separated by gardens so perfect they seem artificial and statues of different animals. While walking to your apartment, you wonder whether every complex in China looks like this. Not that you have a problem with it. 

Going about your first week in Shanghai you feel quite at home in the metropolitan landscape. There’s something about the lights. There’s something about getting drowned by the noise of millions of people going about their day, everyone with their own dreams and aspirations… You take all of that in, watching friends and families go out together, chatting in Chinese, living their own stories. Back at home, you loved walking with crowds, blending into the background, it was the easiest way to forget about yourself. 

Not here though. You stand out, people turn around, they point. You’ve gone home with the wrong kind of meat several times, relying on a translation app for your shopping needs. Your

VPN isn’t working. Your neighbors can’t tell if you’re a tourist or if you live here now. You’re… thriving. 

Although your pronunciation is nowhere near perfect, you insist on asking people “你说英文 吗”, you get weird looks, you get turned down. And this continues, even in the workforce you feel different and… strange. A part of you wishes you could communicate with your coworkers. Wish you could understand them. You say “你好”, they say “Hello”, you ask them how their day is going, they say something in Chinese, fast, you snarl, they hand you their phone, translation app open, you give up. 

There’s a girl in your office who’s been trying to talk to you, but you’ve dismissed her so far. Tired of slowing down your speech and using simpler language, one day you finally ask: 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” 

She’s curious. Her eyes widen, her gaze focused on your frustrated face. You feel powerful over the woman. But as you try to find the right words to tell her to get lost, your vocal cords knot up. You can’t speak. You look around you, you’re being stared at. You clear your throat. She laughs. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

She smirks and makes gestures to one of her coworker friends. They speak a language you don’t understand, who knows what they’re talking about, for a moment you get why they say ignorance is bliss. Somehow you get the feeling you wouldn’t like to know. 

You go home that day feeling like you were stomped by an elephant. As you clean your desk, your attention is drawn to the Chinese writing on your plate. You couldn’t read what it said (you assumed it spelled the name of the bank) and as of right now, it only reminds you of your own foreignness. You wish you could understand. You wish you didn’t have to see their faces as you butcher your way through greetings in your mandatory Chinese lessons. But most importantly, more than ever before, you want to go home. 

You dial a number you didn’t expect to reach out to.

No response. Well, of course, it’s 5 AM back at home. You grab a book and before you know it you’ve fallen asleep on your desk, your tie soaking in dark coffee. 

I was one of them. For a split second, I could understand their language, I was wearing their skin, and the crawling feeling I got when I saw the tall man speak to my friend was unsettling. He had a funny smell, certainly different from everyone else in the room. He looked like a tiger in front of her, every word sounded like a growl, as if he was just waiting for the right opportunity to bite her right there in front of everyone. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I didn’t have to, I could tell he was angry. I saw my best friend under the shadow of a large figure, and in seeing the small Chinese woman being yelled at by an angry foreign man, I was horrified. She smiled, trying to seem strong in front of him, trying to gain his respect. But when she told me she was scared, when she said she didn’t know what she was doing wrong, that she wanted nothing but to understand him, how she kept running over her words, seeking his approval… I woke up from that dream drenched in sweat. 

Good morning. In seeing yourself from the outside for the first time it’s understandable you’d react with some form of apathy. Maybe it’s a wakeup call. Maybe it’s your superego nagging you when you’re most vulnerable. You smell. The woman, on the other hand, fits right in with them, her bobbed black hair just like every other girl in the office. Picture perfect. You loathe who you have become. And in that moment, you’re struck by an imminent sense of sonder. 

You rush to your company phonebook, what was her name again? You could’ve sworn she told you to call her Anna, but there’s no Annas in the phonebook. Every name there is in Chinese. Except for yours. You check your email in hopes of finding any communication between the both of you. You come across your welcome email, sent by the bank’s main English communicator. 

Love, Anna. 

She even wrote you a welcome email, and you yelled at her in the office. You spend the night browsing through online Chinese dictionaries, trying to turn her email’s name, Li Aihua into Chinese characters you could find on the phonebook. You call one of the numbers. 

“Anna?” 

She hangs up. You call again, getting some deodorant while you wait for her to pick up the phone. The bottle is empty. Seeing as to how she doesn’t seem to be interested in responding, you head to your local pharmacy in search for new deodorant. You don’t know how to say it in Chinese, so you show them a picture. 

“没有.” 

You spent that afternoon searching for deodorant. You can’t find any. And the clothes from the store downstairs aren’t your size. And everything is just so damn spicy. You write Anna an email, it’s a farewell email. A farewell email to the man who yelled at her. The man who thought her accent was so bad she should see a phonologist. You surrender, she calls. 

“You want get 烤鸭 tomorrow?” 

“行.”