Putong means common. It is the name for the common dwellings common in old Chinese cities. As it turns out it is still the common accommodation for the poor. Rooms, each with separate entrances, serve as apartments, self contained dwellings, and the homes of many. They are called Putongs, they are called common because there are common toilets, common showers, common halls, common allies, common light, common friends. There are common smells and common lives. There is common time and common sound, even common air. All is shared in the Putong.
Laundry is hung between rooms. The one sink for washing and cleaning, drinking and everything is shared. The shoes of each inhabitant line the hall way. The dust blows in and settles on everything; clean laundry drying, shoes, wash basins, an extra table, an old box, the news paper, hangers and trash. Dirt is so much a part of this like that I wonder what kind of conditions they are talking about when Chinese people talk about “that place was so dirty.” I wonder is that a relative term… or do they see their own conditions as dirty… the way I do.
I have tried to hold my shock. Hide my mortified face. Mute the racing shock and horror I feel when I walk into a room… see someone’s shockingly small home, use a bathroom that makes prison look great, watch a baby pee freely on the floor of a living room… or restaurant while adults stand by watching … then laugh when the child stomps in it. When I see that is it most common for people to sleep in their place or work, be that a restaurant, a cigarette shop, an Internet spot, anything. In this part of town, the only way you can have a business is if you operate out of your home- your bedroom. Solution: hang a curtain. Then it becomes a business. It becomes a restaurant. Put tables in the space where you dress. Hang a curtain to partially hide your bed… and when you run out of room to seat people pull back the curtain and let people sit on your bed.
This works. This is how it is.
As I was walking last night, in the dark and quiet alley on the far side of this neighborhood, I realized that it is a good day. It is a good day when you do not crawl into a room, sleep on a plywood board with five other men who eat out of the same two bowls and who have worked by your side all day, and maybe all your life demolishing the very building your are currently residing in. Hammering. Shoveling. Hauling. Dragging. Taking apart a building one brick at a time. Piling the bricks in neat rows along the alley wall to be used undoubtedly again when you rebuild the very building you are tearing down.
It is a good day when you bathe. When you eat. When you see the sun. When the moon shines through a window. And when you are laughing, singing, and surrounded by friends. It is a good day when you have a home and a job. It is a good day when you feel like you have a sense of place and belonging and satisfaction. It is a good day when you are happy. It is a good day when you eat. When you see the sun. When the moon shines through a window and when you are laughing, singing and surrounded by friends.
So is it better to work like these men I see every day… working, eating and sleeping together… in poor conditions…. Or is it better to work 90 hour weeks at high-paying, high-stress prestigious jobs, making more money than you can spend… and really being alone and feeling separated from your life…? That really is a rhetorical question. I realize that… but I think there has to be something in between. There has to be something better for both extremes.
This is how it works. This is how it is.
Laundry is hung between rooms. The one sink for washing and cleaning, drinking and everything is shared. The shoes of each inhabitant line the hall way. The dust blows in and settles on everything; clean laundry drying, shoes, wash basins, an extra table, an old box, the news paper, hangers and trash. Dirt is so much a part of this like that I wonder what kind of conditions they are talking about when Chinese people talk about “that place was so dirty.” I wonder is that a relative term… or do they see their own conditions as dirty… the way I do.
I have tried to hold my shock. Hide my mortified face. Mute the racing shock and horror I feel when I walk into a room… see someone’s shockingly small home, use a bathroom that makes prison look great, watch a baby pee freely on the floor of a living room… or restaurant while adults stand by watching … then laugh when the child stomps in it. When I see that is it most common for people to sleep in their place or work, be that a restaurant, a cigarette shop, an Internet spot, anything. In this part of town, the only way you can have a business is if you operate out of your home- your bedroom. Solution: hang a curtain. Then it becomes a business. It becomes a restaurant. Put tables in the space where you dress. Hang a curtain to partially hide your bed… and when you run out of room to seat people pull back the curtain and let people sit on your bed.
This works. This is how it is.
As I was walking last night, in the dark and quiet alley on the far side of this neighborhood, I realized that it is a good day. It is a good day when you do not crawl into a room, sleep on a plywood board with five other men who eat out of the same two bowls and who have worked by your side all day, and maybe all your life demolishing the very building your are currently residing in. Hammering. Shoveling. Hauling. Dragging. Taking apart a building one brick at a time. Piling the bricks in neat rows along the alley wall to be used undoubtedly again when you rebuild the very building you are tearing down.
It is a good day when you bathe. When you eat. When you see the sun. When the moon shines through a window. And when you are laughing, singing, and surrounded by friends. It is a good day when you have a home and a job. It is a good day when you feel like you have a sense of place and belonging and satisfaction. It is a good day when you are happy. It is a good day when you eat. When you see the sun. When the moon shines through a window and when you are laughing, singing and surrounded by friends.
So is it better to work like these men I see every day… working, eating and sleeping together… in poor conditions…. Or is it better to work 90 hour weeks at high-paying, high-stress prestigious jobs, making more money than you can spend… and really being alone and feeling separated from your life…? That really is a rhetorical question. I realize that… but I think there has to be something in between. There has to be something better for both extremes.
This is how it works. This is how it is.
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