Names--Mingzi.

In China, most young people have two names, a family name, followed by a given name and the second, well, is an alias of curiosity to any native English speaker. Corpse, for example, was one such name.

Bloated after another starchy meal of rice and variations of the same greens, meat and sauce to flavor the fare, the other foreign teachers and I sat back in our chairs, already set into a routine ourselves, and turned to the topic of usual. China versus us. Not a competitive jostle of who will win all, as it may sound, as we know we hold a large amount of debt to the country, but a conversation of inquiry. What makes China so different? That loaded question which intrigues me to return yet again. But this time arriving knowing that the more you learn about China, the more confused you become. Such was our conversation about the irony of Corpse as a selected English name. Did he know he was suggesting that he was a walking, clearly talking, dead body?



On our arrival, three smiling Chinese faces greeted us. They didn't need a sign, though they stood waving our lettered names anyway. Foreigners, check. From what I could tell, we were the only waiguorens (foreigners) exiting the plane. Turning to Joseph, China's most diverse visitor (presumably from the attention he has garnered with his long crown of dreads and contrasting dark skin), they inquired, "You must be Jewshep".

I could barely stifle my laughter. I light up like the Northern Sky in awkward moments and try as I might to block that juvenile part of me, it just comes out more forcefully until I can't breathe from superfluous laughter. If you're reading this, you've probably seen it before.

"Joe, actually," my comrade responses cooly. Not one to easily stress in moments such as these.

Like a cackle of barnyard chickens I can't understand, they sound off, "Jew, Jew, Jew, yes, yes, yes?!"

"Joe."

"Oh, yes, Jew."

This game persists until Joe finally accepts the obvious, but minor name misdemeanor. Jewshep it is.

I just smile as they repeat my name with a distinct A-nnna. I can't be mad or slay them like I would a friend for the same offense. These sweet smiling woman, half my size, have just forced my overweight luggage out of my hands and swiftly carted it to the awaiting cars. In our abrupt arrival to Zhengzhou, I can't shake the immense feeling of what these women have done to please our every whim and whimper. My Visa struggles and the rapid speed they must have processed my papers. On top of it, as I've learned recently, making just our meager 5,400 yuan (around $800) per month, we easily fall into the 80th percentile for income. For ZZers, 1,000 yuan a month is considered decent. Behind the President and our waiban, we make the most in our school, plus we get free rent and two apartments, as I've mentioned before.

This reality still amazes me everyday, especially as I soak in the bloat of the free post-meal glory. It's more than a feeling of being full, it's a greasy saturation of privilege from birthright. I'm uneasy as I eat my rice and a tug from my youth rises up, "finish up, a child in China is starving".