Read Online Wish You Happy Forever by Jenny Bowen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenny Bowen
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eyes.â Only in reverse. The China Smile.
IT SEEMED PRETTY obvious that the ministry had selected Shijiazhuang for our first visit largely because it was in the north, close to Beijing, and easier to keep an eye on us there. In the end, I was grateful they had, for Iâd been able to get a glimpse of orphanage life close to what it really was. The south was a different story.
For reasons I wasnât China scholar enough to understand, abandonment (and infanticide) of girl-children had been going on south of the Yangtze River long before institution of the one-child policy in 1979. Even when unofficial policy was relaxed in rural areas to permit a second child if the first was a girl (boys were needed to work the land, provide for the family, carry on the family name), orphanages in the south continued to fill with little girls, likely second daughters.
Before the bad publicity of The Dying Rooms and the Human Rights Watch report, those southern orphanages were fairly easygoing and accessible. âThe mountains are high and the emperor is far away,â as the saying goes. But, as the subject of both the film and the report, those orphanages had paid dearly. They were still feeling the sting when I showed up with my bright idea.
So despite the fact that they had been ordered by the ministry to allow our visit, orphanages in the south were not about to be stung again. The banquets were as lavish and frequent as in that first town, but caution was most definitely in the air.
Here was the routine: When we arrived at the gate, the ânormalâ children and staff were all outside, applauding. Everyone was dressed up and adorable. Cute little girls with lipsticked smiles brought us flowers.
First stop was the scale-model-of-our-future-orphanage exhibition. Usually that was in a giant glass box in the lobby. âEverything that we see today will be torn down soon,â they said. Although they definitely did look the worse for wear, most of the buildings were no more than five years old. (Mrs. Zhang told me that China is the land of instant antiques.) We spent more time looking at the models than visiting the children.
Then there would be the standard reception room visit, with fruit and speeches.
Finally, weâd make a quick pass through the childrenâs rooms. All was clean and orderly. The children were perfectly washed and combed. No less-than-perfectly-formed child specimens were on display. A brand-new toy had been placed in front of every child. It sat untouched, a foreign object. Most of the children had been given sweet treats to keep them in line. There were few caregivers present, though, and nothing could disguise the blank faces of the children.
A couple of the little ones escaped from their assigned chairs and clung to my legs, demanding to be picked up. The ayi s grabbed them away with a nervous, apologetic laugh. The babies were snug in their cribs, each with a bottle propped at her mouth. When I picked up a bottle that had rolled away from a newborn too small to grab for it, it was quickly snatched up by someone and popped back into the tiny mouth. All shipshape.
Sometimes thereâd be a little performance in our honor. We sat in little chairs. Wee tots wearing paper bunny ears sang a song about pulling carrots. The slightly older kids offered a Vegas-esque fashion show to a disco beat. The staff might treat us to a song or two. We applauded with great enthusiasm.
It was a year or more before I was able to walk into an orphanage in the south on a first visit without encountering some version of an orphanâs Potemkin village.
The one exception to the carefully staged but warm southern welcome was in Guangzhou, the capital of Guangdong Province, and Mayaâs first home. The week before, while we were visiting two orphanages in southern Jiangsu Province, the Chinese government had begun a ferocious crackdown on the Falun Gong, a fast-growing sect of seemingly ordinary
IT SEEMED PRETTY obvious that the ministry had selected Shijiazhuang for our first visit largely because it was in the north, close to Beijing, and easier to keep an eye on us there. In the end, I was grateful they had, for Iâd been able to get a glimpse of orphanage life close to what it really was. The south was a different story.
For reasons I wasnât China scholar enough to understand, abandonment (and infanticide) of girl-children had been going on south of the Yangtze River long before institution of the one-child policy in 1979. Even when unofficial policy was relaxed in rural areas to permit a second child if the first was a girl (boys were needed to work the land, provide for the family, carry on the family name), orphanages in the south continued to fill with little girls, likely second daughters.
Before the bad publicity of The Dying Rooms and the Human Rights Watch report, those southern orphanages were fairly easygoing and accessible. âThe mountains are high and the emperor is far away,â as the saying goes. But, as the subject of both the film and the report, those orphanages had paid dearly. They were still feeling the sting when I showed up with my bright idea.
So despite the fact that they had been ordered by the ministry to allow our visit, orphanages in the south were not about to be stung again. The banquets were as lavish and frequent as in that first town, but caution was most definitely in the air.
Here was the routine: When we arrived at the gate, the ânormalâ children and staff were all outside, applauding. Everyone was dressed up and adorable. Cute little girls with lipsticked smiles brought us flowers.
First stop was the scale-model-of-our-future-orphanage exhibition. Usually that was in a giant glass box in the lobby. âEverything that we see today will be torn down soon,â they said. Although they definitely did look the worse for wear, most of the buildings were no more than five years old. (Mrs. Zhang told me that China is the land of instant antiques.) We spent more time looking at the models than visiting the children.
Then there would be the standard reception room visit, with fruit and speeches.
Finally, weâd make a quick pass through the childrenâs rooms. All was clean and orderly. The children were perfectly washed and combed. No less-than-perfectly-formed child specimens were on display. A brand-new toy had been placed in front of every child. It sat untouched, a foreign object. Most of the children had been given sweet treats to keep them in line. There were few caregivers present, though, and nothing could disguise the blank faces of the children.
A couple of the little ones escaped from their assigned chairs and clung to my legs, demanding to be picked up. The ayi s grabbed them away with a nervous, apologetic laugh. The babies were snug in their cribs, each with a bottle propped at her mouth. When I picked up a bottle that had rolled away from a newborn too small to grab for it, it was quickly snatched up by someone and popped back into the tiny mouth. All shipshape.
Sometimes thereâd be a little performance in our honor. We sat in little chairs. Wee tots wearing paper bunny ears sang a song about pulling carrots. The slightly older kids offered a Vegas-esque fashion show to a disco beat. The staff might treat us to a song or two. We applauded with great enthusiasm.
It was a year or more before I was able to walk into an orphanage in the south on a first visit without encountering some version of an orphanâs Potemkin village.
The one exception to the carefully staged but warm southern welcome was in Guangzhou, the capital of Guangdong Province, and Mayaâs first home. The week before, while we were visiting two orphanages in southern Jiangsu Province, the Chinese government had begun a ferocious crackdown on the Falun Gong, a fast-growing sect of seemingly ordinary
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