Better City, Better Life

Better City, Better Life   —by Jinny Batterson

“Better city, better life” was the theme and mantra of Expo 2010 Shanghai China, held from May 1 through October 31 of that year in one of China’s preeminent urban areas. This international exposition, the first since 1992, was extravagant in every way. My brief visit was a drop in the bucket of the 73,000,000 visitors to the fair, a record since attendance has been tracked. On a single day in October, 2010, over a million people passed through the Expo entrance turnstiles. During the three days in which I had a chance to visit, I barely scratched the surface of the 246 national and organizational pavilions that made up this biggest of all global expositions so far (both in land area and in number of exhibitors).

Most of the time I’ve spent in China, I’ve avoided large metropolitan areas, where crowding and pollution can be detrimental to both mental and physical health.  However, increasingly in China, and globally, humans live in cities. According to the most recent update from the U.N.’s Department of Economic and Social Affairs, in 2014 about 54% of the world’s population lived in cities. This is a big change from the 34% of global population that inhabited cities as recently as 1960. Asia is one of the most rapidly urbanizing regions. The small-scale Chinese farmer plowing his rice paddy with a water buffalo is increasingly a thing of the past.

When America was industrializing in the early 20th century, a popular song of the time wondered about the preferences of U.S. World War I veterans returning from service in Europe:  “How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree (Paris)?” The same can now be said for Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and numerous other Chinese metropolises. Especially for young men, the dislocations and changes in lifestyle that accompany moving to the city can be offset by increasing economic opportunities. Urbanization is happening much more quickly in modern China and India than it did in Europe and North America last century. Those of us with rural or small-town roots may bemoan the loss of the so-called bucolic lifestyle we imaginatively remember from long-ago childhoods. What we too easily forget is the amount of hard physical labor required to do small-scale farming, or the isolation that can stalk those whose nearest neighbors may be out of sight.

Both the content of Expo 2010 and the rapid transitions of Chinese and of global populations toward urban life highlight some of the opportunities and challenges that city life presents.  How do rural-to-urban migrants develop and adapt appropriate urban life skills? How do we maintain ties with neighbors when we have millions of them? How do we create transportation systems that are convenient but minimally polluting?  How do we provide safe and reliable supplies of food and water when much of the land surface is sparsely peopled, and close to 2/3 of all humans live in urban centers of 100,000 people or more?  How do we avoid pandemics? Are there keys to sustaining “megacities” (of over 10 million population)? Are there limits to the population size of a viable urban center?

No current city, not even Shanghai, is an ideal model.  Some of Shanghai’s features were hastily and temporarily improved for the period of the exposition—factories were shut down or moved, construction of new subway lines was expedited, neighborhoods at or near the Expo site were either demolished or spruced up. Since the end of Expo, the city has had at least one spell, in December 2013, in which particulate air pollution reached such dangerous levels that school children were cautioned to stay indoors.

A transition to cleaner energy and more climate-friendly living styles is a needed part of “better city better life,”  in Shanghai, and everywhere else.

Fall Foliage–“Huyang” Trees

Fall Foliage—“Huyang” Trees    –by Jinny Batterson

Vermont has its maples, Colorado its aspens. The Taklamakan region has its “variegated leaf poplars,” known in Chinese as “huyang” trees.  These trees are desert-hardy, and have been spotted even deep within the Taklamakan.  Their leaves at different stages and on different parts of the tree can mimic poplar, willow, and even maple leaves. In the autumn, they turn a golden yellow, lighting up the area around them. Until I went to Xinjiang, I had never heard of these trees (also called “Euphrates poplars,” though not so often in sometimes ethnically tense Xinjiang).

Recently, the trees have become increasingly endangered, and I worry they may follow the trajectory of the American chestnut trees which once formed an important part of the deciduous forests of the eastern United States. During the early 20th century, nearly all American chestnuts succumbed to a fungal blight accidentally introduced from Asia—only a few isolated stands remain.  So far, no biological blight is affecting the variegated leaf poplars, but the incursion of more and more people into the areas where they’ve grown has put increasing pressure on these “trees of the desert.”  Some of the characteristics that make them most adapted to their geographical region—deep, extensive roots and slow-decaying wood—have also made them most susceptible to human invasion.  Their harvested wood is popular for building materials; their intrusive roots make them anathema to those constructing housing or irrigation projects near stands of the trees, whose roots over time will invade foundations and pipes.

The Chinese national television network, CCTV, in 2009 broadcast a 12 part series titled in English, “The Last Stand of the Euphrates Poplars.”  Shortly afterward, in 2010, the P.R.C. applied for UNESCO World Heritage status for parts of the Taklamakan/Tarim Basin region, including the Euphrates poplar’s extensive stands there as part of the justification for a designation:

“The Tarim Basin is the world’s core area of these poplar trees which cover 352,200 ha, accounting for 90% of their total area in China and 54.29% of the global distribution. The largest natural poplar trees in the world occur in the Tarim River drainage area and large areas of undisturbed poplar forests have been preserved in this region.”

The application is still under review.

As a town resident in the Tarim River oasis settlement at Ala’er, Xinjiang, I got few initial chances to see these poplars up close. That changed one autumn weekend when a work colleague arranged a group day trip out into the desert. We packed up a small van with tarps, water, and a picnic lunch, then set out from town.  We stopped first at a fairly high set of sand dunes, took some pictures, and took turns horsing around and rolling down the sides of the dunes. A large trash heap near the dunes only slightly marred the idyllic scene. (Why bother with landfills when the desert winds will sooner or later cover your trash for you?) Even here there were a few poplars, their roots burrowing deep under the dunes.

Next we stopped at a construction site where several tributaries that flow out of the surrounding mountains meet the Tarim River. Since it was autumn, flow from the glacier-fed tributaries was minimal or nonexistent, but there was a lot of piping and several dams—trying to capture as much of the water as possible. For our picnic site, we went downstream about a third of a mile to a large grove of poplars, golden and just starting to shed their leaves. There was a slight breeze, and the trees murmured in a way I associate with aspen groves in the American West.

It is possible that ancestors of the current trees developed as much as 65 million years ago. It is my hope that, despite our busy efforts to “conquer” the desert, these beautiful trees will continue to thrive where little else can for millions of years more.

Music and Friendship

Music and Friendship  —by Jinny Batterson

Poets and writers have long proclaimed music a universal language.  Whenever I’ve taught in China, I’ve incorporated music into my English lessons and programs.  But learning goes both ways—some of the first Chinese words I learned, beyond the very basic “ni hao,” “zai jian,” and “xie xie,” (hello, goodbye, and thank you), came through a song.

In 2002, during a short teaching stint in Zhengzhou, Henan, I was presenting a lesson about Chinese immigration to the United States. The first large-scale Chinese settlement in America came in the wake of the 1848 discovery of gold in California. Several thousand Chinese young men, mostly from the coastal provinces of Guangdong and Fujian, crossed the Pacific then in search of “gold mountain.” China was undergoing hardship and turmoil—it seemed a good time to leave in search of a better life. I used simple tools to supplement my lecture and to connect the students to these adventuresome ancestors of theirs. First I drew a rough outline map of the U.S., pointing out where California was. Then I wrote on the chalk board some lyrics of the folk song “Clementine,” honing in on vocabulary about “miners” and “49ers.”  After more explanation and a couple of solos of the lyric, I tried to get the students to sing along—many did.

At that time, most Chinese students were still shy about asking questions in class, especially outside major cities like Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou. The school where I taught this lesson was a large public junior middle school (roughly equivalent to U.S. grades 7-9) in a mid-sized provincial capital. At the end of our singing, I saw several students looking puzzled. I was resigned to not knowing what had intrigued them. I expected them just to sit quietly, waiting to see what the strange foreign teacher would do next. They surprised me. One of the bolder students raised his hand.

“Excuse me, teacher,” he began.  “We all know that tune, but it has different words.”

He and several of his cohorts then proceeded to teach me the Chinese “Happy New Year” song—“Xinnian Hao,” whose tune seems to have crossed the Pacific, possibly in both directions.

A bit later in my China travels, I was exposed to a classical Chinese lyric that has haunted me ever since:  “Dan Yuan Ren Chang Jiu,” loosely translatable as “Wishing We Last Forever.”  In the year 1076, Song dynasty poet Su Shi  composed the verse. At Mid-Autumn Festival (honoring the harvest moon, plus family and lovers’ reunions, occurring in September or early October by the Chinese lunar calendar), he spent the night drinking wine, looking at the full moon, and missing his long-lost brother. Toward morning, he wrote the characters of one of his best-known poems. With a modernized tune, the lyric was recorded in 1983 by Taiwanese singer Theresa Teng (Deng LiJun).  I first heard the song in 2007. At the end of my year’s teaching in 2009, my students sang me the song karaoke-style in farewell.  I’ve tried an Americanized adaptation below about long-distance friendships.  Click here for a link to the Theresa Teng Chinese version.

(To Friendship   —adapted by Jinny Batterson)

How bright the round moon shines—
Wine soaks this sorrow of mine,
How I long to see you,
Friends, just one more time.

The moon first waxes, then wanes,
‘Til just a sliver remains,
Riding high, cold, distant,
In the pre-dawn sky, just as lonesome as I.

Oceans may divide us,
Mountain ranges hide us,
Friendship’s still there.
Whether by pale moonlight
Or by noonday sunlight
We stay aware
Of others who care.

People have joys, sorrows, fears,
Journeys range both far and near.
Though we stay continents apart
And never meet again, treasured memories remain.

 

 

Amahoro

Amahoro    —by Jinny Batterson

“Amahoro” is a traditional greeting in some of the languages of central Africa, where I lived about 30 years ago in Burundi’s capital city, Bujumbura.  The greeting’s meaning is hard to translate, somewhere between “How are you?” and “Peace be with you.”  The area’s two main ethnic groups, the Hutu and the Tutsi, have periodically been decimated by large-scale violence, the most infamous being the Rwandan genocide of 1994. Perhaps the best known chronicle of the area’s suffering and redemption is Tracy Kidder’s 2009 biography of “Deo,” a Burundian caught in the midst of violence in both Burundi and Rwanda who later finishes medical school in America and returns to his homeland to start a rural medical clinic. This  poem (which a friend has since set to music) tells parts of the story of a neighbor who shared greetings and a garden with me there during a relatively peaceful time.

I greet you, ‘amahoro:’ I’ve now four children grown,
A pleasant life, a loving spouse, grandchildren of my own,
Yet always there’s a part of me that finds this world disjoint–
With help from friends and mentors, I have finally reached this point.
The culture that I come from reveres calm and reserve,
My husband paid three cows for me, a bride he well deserved,
We’ve traveled wide and deeply, global service was our choice
Long years since my young world collapsed, this story finds its voice.

When I was finishing lycée, our country, newly formed,
Drowned in a sea of violence, death came to seem the norm.
My father was a Hutu, my mom a Tutsi proud.
It took a lot of courage then to say their love out loud.
We had a family compound in the capital’s green hills.
My father was a doctor, among the highest skilled.
He left for work one morning, before the dawn’s first light.
The streets were filled with soldiers, he did not come home that night.

I’ve grown skeptical of labels, too often they divide,
They can mask our human failings and feed our human pride.
I’ve long since left my country, there life still for most is grim–
Where lots of blame and fighting mar the beauty born within.
My story’s one of many, still, it’s hard to find the tone
To share this tragicomedy with those who can’t have known
The hole losing my dad made for all he knew and loved–
We gather strength in what remains to conquer hate with love.

 

Amahoro

Treetops (for Linda Swirczek)

Treetops   (for Linda Swirczek)    —by Jinny Batterson

(Those who mother us are not always our biological mothers. The first version of this meditation was written nearly a generation ago in memory of a fellow consultant whose physical death had come much too early. Though Consultants’ Camp has since relocated and though I haven’t been as acutely aware of Linda since the treetops episode, I’m persuaded that her spirit persists, ready to provide wise counsel again when most needed. Happy Mother’s Day to all the women and men who’ve mothered us, whether or not they have biological children.)

For the first few years, she attended our
Struggling annual conference,
Bubbly, nearly always kind, smoothing
Our rough edges.

Then the politician husband whose children
She had raised to adulthood divorced her.
First came depression. Later, a brain tumor
Proved resistant to treatment.

She rallied long enough to share one
Last festive meal and decadent dessert
At the log cabin restaurant in
The Rockies resort town where
Consultants’ Camp was then meeting.

The mountain climber who’d fallen
Deeply in love with post-divorce Linda
Took charge of her physical ashes.
The following summer, he scattered them
On a favorite peak.

Several years passed. After a health scare
Of my own, I was shaky and unsure.
I traveled. I took a short hike
Among California trees, then
Stopped for a rest, seemingly alone.

Dust motes sparkled in light filtered
Through redwoods that had been seedlings
A hundred human generations
Before my friend and I were born.

From somewhere near the tops
Of the trees, Linda’s lilting cadences
Drifted down: “Don’t panic,” she told me,
“Remember who you are.”

Bristlecone Pine

Bristlecone Pine —by Jinny Batterson

(This poem was written in the late 1990’s when I attended a conference in western Colorado founded by one of my data processing mentors, Jerry Weinberg, with his wife Dani. Jerry, during the time that I knew him best, was beset by physical ailments of one kind or another, also jettisoning non-essential body parts to keep going. Though he hasn’t yet reached the millennial mark, he’s past 80, still writing, still distilling wisdom and sharing it with anyone who has time to pay attention. Jerry’s website is at www.geraldmweinberg.com. Check out some of his poetry, too.)

Solitary, silhouetted
Against a desert sky,
Its trunk twisted,
Its branches out of symmetry,
A mute testament
To the
Will to survive.
In dry years or decades,
It jettisons limbs, even trunk, to keep
Remaining life
Concentrated, capable of
Regeneration. In wet years
Or decades,
It bursts forth
In luxurious lopsided
Growth.
This is how it
Endures
For
Millennia.

Popcorn Snow

Popcorn Snow   —by Jinny Batterson

(This weather commentary was written in late winter 2010, a previous cold and snowy winter in this part of North Carolina. It was originally published, without picture, in an edition of the magazine Carolina Woman. That year, spring eventually came, as it will this year…)

p2010popcornsnowSaturday morning.
Sister safely aloft on the next leg
of her winter off-the-farm vacation.
Larder well-stocked.
Tummy full of pancakes and hot chocolate.
No immediate chores.
A welcome window of time to explore
the whiteness that coated our yards and trees overnight.
Not heavy and dense, like the late January storm and chill
that trapped us indoors for days.
Barely noticeable on roads and sidewalks,
But wrapping itself around branches and bushes and
twigs and leaves and pinecones,
Making miniature moguls so insubstantial they’ll be gone
as soon as the sun comes out.
No need just yet for Olympic vistas of snow-majestic peaks–
Enough to have a morning amble in popcorn snow.

A Good Failure

A Good Failure

(Generations run long in our family. My older grandfather was born in rural Mississippi in September, 1869. He lived until 1961, through immense changes in the political and social landscape which he puzzled to make sense of.  I hope this remembrance does him justice.)

“You can learn a lot from a good failure,” my grandpa used to say,
Whenever he could get anyone to listen, which was not that often.
He probably spoke from experience, as someone who went bust
During the Texas oil boom at the turn of the last century.

Undaunted, he moved furniture and family further north,
Though he never lost some of the regionalisms of his upbringing.
For the next 20 years or so, he plodded along as a Baltimore bookkeeper,
Counting other people’s money, until the Depression dried up even that.
He got odd jobs when he could, but mainly lived out the rest of a long life
Supported by the earnings of his wife, and later his children.

If that hurt his Southern male pride, he got over it.
He raised berries, which flourished, and pecan trees, which
Grew spindly and refused to bear fruit
In the Maryland climate. During the summer,
He sat in their shade in a rakish straw hat, waving a straw fan,
Telling his granddaughter stories of triumphs and failures.

Born After the War

Born After the War

(“Hiroshima Day”, August 6, is not much celebrated in the U.S., though  I’ve been told that in Japan it is the occasion for solemn remembrances. In 2000, I had a chance to visit Hiroshima and see the A-Bomb dome, the Peace Museum, and the millions of paper cranes, symbols of peace and hope, sent there by school children from around the world. This musing was prompted by that visit.)

On its anniversary a decade ago, I gave a short commemorative presentation about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima–the first use of atomic weapons–on August 6, 1945.  My audience was attentive.  We all squirmed uncomfortably. After the subsequent silence, people began sharing their stories. Some older attendees had known A-bomb survivors personally.  Most remembered exactly what they were doing when they got news of the bombing–like those of my generation remember the JFK and MLK assassinations, or my children remember the Challenger spaceship disaster.

I’ve sometimes felt both gifted and cheated by the timing of my appearance in 1947, when the worst of  World War II damage was starting to be hidden beneath sprouting weeds and aid programs, although the aftershocks were felt in the growing belligerence among former allies that later came to be called the “Cold War.”  During a 1950’s period of postwar U.S. uneasiness,  hunts were carried out for Communists, domestic and foreign. Perhaps their existence would help explain why, after our recent great resounding victories, so many felt so empty.

One of my grandfathers, the Rebel one, was also born not long after a war, in 1869. His early childhood was spent in a house occupied by Union troops who’d temporarily expropriated a Southern landscape almost as desolate as postwar Hiroshima.  As his brain softened with age, he sometimes relived that childhood, becoming again the scared white boy who dreaded the “n— down the road who carried a pistol for me.”

Sometimes I wonder about the wisdom of those of us born after wars.  We are often the pampered progeny of parents determined to keep us out of harm’s way. They don’t want us to suffer through what they did.  Laudable as their efforts were and are, there are downside risks. Absent at least some suffering, we are all too apt to blunder through life, expecting all obstacles to be removed, planting the seeds of the next wars by blaming each other when stubborn boulders of prejudice, ego and ideology refuse to budge without great effort.

Jonah’s Dilemma (The Curse of Being Heeded)

Jonah’s Dilemma (The Curse of Being Heeded)

(This entry is based partly on Bible stories I heard as a child, partly on a paraphrase of the original Biblical tale by Anne Herbert that I first read in the 1981 edition of the Whole Earth Catalog.  One of the downsides of being reform-minded is that we often don’t know how to react if/when the reforms we are so passionate about do get implemented.)

The Bible poses thorny problems, new to us over and over.
Take the story of Jonah. As children, we reveled in his adventures–
Being swallowed by a big fish, then spit out, alive
On a faraway shore.  Wow!

It’s not until much later (and sometimes never) that Jonah’s ethical problems
Begin to grab us.  Like the whale’s digestive system, they gnaw at us,
Leaching nourishment into our souls.

Most other Biblical prophets ranted at a reluctant public
Who refused to heed their warnings, getting their just desserts
In due season: being pulled apart by dogs, like Jezebel,
Or exiled to Babylon, like the Jews, or…
We’re pretty good at filling in the blanks.

Jonah didn’t want to rant and rave. He could see retribution coming
For Nineveh, and he did not want to risk being prophetic.

But being a prophet is a calling not dismissed easily.
Despite Jonah’s best efforts at evasion,
He was thrown among the people he was meant to warn.
He stuttered off his message, finding to his great surprise
That his audience was receptive.  What’s more, they were willing,
Even eager, to mend their ways.

They repented.

Which left Jonah in the lurch even worse than being barfed up
By a whale.  Where is the paragraph in the prophets’ manual
That explains what to do with a repentant public?
Jonah had no role models.
He did what most of us do when thoroughly frustrated–
He threw a tantrum, venting much of his stored up
Invective at a God who once again surpasses our
Addiction to pat solutions.

And God replied with a question, an important one:
Is there a possibility that someday, somehow, we, too

Can surpass our addiction to pat solutions?