Strange Stones

Story of He Wei

Before coming here, my wife asked me,

“You’ll be in China during the Mid-Autumn Festival — you’ll have to eat mooncakes, right?”

I said, “I’ll probably also eat noodles, dumplings, and Sichuan food,”

because we live in Cairo, Egypt now,

and we especially miss Chinese food.

But there aren’t any good Chinese restaurants near where we live.

In the south of Cairo, there is a very good Sichuan restaurant,

but it’s hard to get there.

Taking a taxi is troublesome, especially if you have kids.

We have two four-year-olds,

and installing car seats in a taxi is a huge hassle.

So this year we bought a car.

I said the car was for my research in Egypt—

but honestly, we bought it just so we could eat Sichuan food. (laughter)

Sorry— I just came from Egypt.

In Egypt I rarely speak Chinese,

so I’ve forgotten quite a lot.

My wife and I are learning Arabic,

so sometimes when I speak Chinese, Arabic words just slip in.

I apologize if my Chinese sounds confused.

Today I want to talk about my new book, Strange Stones.

It’s a collection of stories and articles I’ve written in recent years.

As you may know, during my time in China I wrote a trilogy —

Country Driving, Oracle Bones, and River Town.

But in fact, each of these books began as articles for The New Yorker.

That magazine is where my writing career is mainly centered.

Strange Stones gathers together my favorite pieces.

In its preface, I also write about my own background

and part of the education I received.

I grew up in the U.S. state of Missouri,

right in the middle of America — a pretty remote place.

When I was young, I wasn’t interested in foreign countries,

especially not China.

If you had asked me then what the difference was

between mainland China, Japan, and Taiwan,

I would have said they were all the same.

In high school and college I never studied any foreign language.

In fact, I didn’t even have a passport.

I had never left the country.

But my father was a sociologist.

He influenced me greatly,

because he also did interviews with many people for his work.

He was a man who loved to talk, a great storyteller,

and he was curious about everyone —

whether you were a worker or a person of high status,

he would talk with you all the same.

Sometimes I worked with him.

Now I’ll read a section from my book’s preface,

where I wrote about my father during my childhood:

“Whenever my father and I found ourselves somewhere with nothing to do —

a train station, a hotel, or any empty place —

he would randomly pick someone and ask me:

what do you observe about this person?

Is their clothing interesting?

How do they walk?

What do you think they do for a living?

Why do you think they came here?”

He wanted to train my powers of observation.

So this was something we often did.

He himself had learned this habit from his teacher.

My father earned his PhD at the University of Pittsburgh,

and in the 1960s there was an influential sociologist there named Peter New.

He was beloved by students because he was incredibly observant

and a wonderful storyteller.

In fact, my name — Peter — comes from him.

This is a photo of Peter New.

I’m on the left,

he’s in the middle holding my little sister.

You can see he was a tall Chinese man.

His Chinese name was Niu Kangmin.

He was born and raised in Shanghai.

But in high school he went to the United States to study.

He went to Dartmouth College.

So he spoke exactly like an American.

He was already a U.S. citizen then,

and he worked entirely in America,

because in the 1960s and 70s he couldn’t return to China.

He was Chinese, but we had no idea what China was like.

All we knew was that he was my father’s teacher.

I’ll read another passage from my book about him:

“In my childhood memory, he was unforgettable —

over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a round belly and a large head,

his face as round as a mooncake.

Besides his love of observing people,

he invented a method he called creative bumbling.

You could translate it as ‘创造性口吃’ (laughs).

Whenever Niu Kangmin felt he needed to get something done —

like dealing with a traffic cop,

or finding a seat in a crowded restaurant —

he would instantly turn into a confused foreigner.

He’d speak with a heavy accent, unclear words,

becoming at once a real Chinese man and a real foreigner.

People, without exception, would try to comfort

this flustered, tongue-tied Chinese man

to avoid any further trouble.”

Niu Kangmin had a booming voice,

he loved storytelling,

and his humor was excellent.

Like my father, he was a talkative, observant man.

Even far from home, he could make himself feel at home anywhere.

That was my first impression of a Chinese person.

As a child, I thought Chinese people were tall and powerful.

I believed they were all giants,

because he was the only Chinese person I had ever seen.

He represented all of China.

Whenever I heard the word “Shanghai,”

I imagined a city full of giants.

Niu Kangmin passed away in 1985.

I was fifteen then — still young,

and not yet interested in China.

So I never talked with him about it.

He once told my father briefly,

“I grew up in Shanghai. I grew up in a hospital.

My father was a doctor.”

But he never went into details.

In recent years, I’ve become interested in his story.

His background is actually fascinating.

His grandfather was named Niu Shangzhou.

In 1872, his grandfather was one of the boys

the Qing government sent to study in America.

He’s the small boy on the far right in this photo.

At that time, the Qing launched a program

called the Chinese Educational Mission,

part of the Self-Strengthening Movement.

China wanted to modernize and learn from the West,

so it sent over 130 boys to study at elite American schools.

His grandfather went to Phillips Exeter Academy,

a prestigious boarding school.

They spent about fifteen years in the U.S.

Then they were supposed to return to China

to help modernize the country.

But near the end of the Qing dynasty,

many problems arose,

and the program was canceled.

So he went back to Shanghai.

Some say the program failed,

but in fact, these people were extremely influential.

A few years ago, an American author wrote a book about them.

You can see it uses the same photo on its cover.

That boy on the far right — that’s Niu Shangzhou.

Then his son — Niu Kangmin’s father — also studied abroad.

Because his father had overseas experience,

he went to Harvard University.

After graduation, he returned to Shanghai

and worked as a doctor with his brother.

They founded a private hospital—

a significant one in the city.

This is Niu Kangmin’s father, Niu Huisheng.

He’s seated in the middle.

At the time, he was president of the Chinese Medical Association.

This was in 1932.

Their old hospital still exists—

I took this photo yesterday.

It’s on Yueyang Road, now a protected historic building,

though no longer in use.

Strangely, when I was young,

I never knew any of this history.

This was our last photo together.

I’m on the left,

and you can see Niu Kangmin behind my father.

He died suddenly in 1985.

So he didn’t directly influence my understanding of China;

we never really spoke.

I went to China at age twenty-seven,

and that’s when I began learning Chinese.

But I think he influenced me greatly anyway,

because he was my father’s teacher.

His way of seeing — his flexibility, his observational mind —

shaped me deeply.

His perspective wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t purely American or purely Chinese.

Some of his thinking came from Chinese culture,

some from the West.

So his mind was elastic, adaptable.

His creative bumbling influenced me, too—

especially when I went to Fuling.

Back then, I really was a bit foolish,

because I couldn’t speak a single word.

Sometimes I also “became a foreigner.”

When interviewing people,

I’d say, “Sorry, I don’t understand—could you explain again?”

It came naturally.

And I found that in China,

people were very patient—especially if you were a foreigner,

and even more if you were a writer.

In the U.S., I had a teacher named John McPhee,

a very famous nonfiction writer.

He used the same method:

he would sometimes ask his interviewees the same question

three or four times.

Each time, their answer revealed something new—

a new detail.

So I use that method, too.

In China, I liked interviewing farmers and workers,

ordinary people,

because I could talk with them for hours.

They were patient.

Sometimes they were puzzled, asking,

“Do you really have a job?” (laughter)

When I wrote Country Driving in Zhejiang,

I focused on one very small factory—

only about a dozen workers.

I went there again and again—

I think I spent over two years studying them.

Sometimes they’d ask,

“You still haven’t written your article?

Our factory is so bad—why are you interested in us?”

I think they were wondering if maybe

they were a terrible factory and I was a terrible journalist. (laughter)

But they stayed patient.

The biggest issue in Zhejiang was suspicion:

sometimes they worried I was a spy—

not a real “spy,” but a rival businessman sent to copy their work.

So I’d often show them proof—

articles I’d written, books published, links online.

But most of the time,

ordinary Chinese people were very patient with me.

Now in Egypt, I use the same method.

Where I live, there’s a garbage collector.

I recently wrote an article about him.

He’s illiterate but extremely clever,

with a sharp sense of observation.

He knows what kind of people throw away what kind of things.

Once he told me,

“That man is rich—he has $4,044,000 in the bank.”

I asked, “How do you know that?”

He said, “Because he threw away his bank statement.”

When I had lived in China for more than ten years,

while still working on Country Driving,

I felt life was very good.

Work was satisfying; I was content.

But my wife and I both felt

we shouldn’t stay in one place for too long,

because if we did,

we might grow dull.

Whether you are a writer, a journalist, or a nonfiction author,

your perspective is the most important thing.

You must value your angle.

People say:

if you’re American, you have an American perspective;

if you’re Chinese, a Chinese one;

men have theirs, women have theirs.

But I think it’s not that simple.

Your perspective depends on your education.

You can change your education.

You can learn new things, go to new places.

That’s especially important for journalists.

That’s why we left China.

We left in 2007.

For me, it was a very good thing.

Only after leaving the U.S.

did I begin writing many stories about America.

When I look at people in the U.S. now,

part of my perspective comes from China—

it’s not the same as other Americans’.

The same has been true in Egypt.

From Niu Kangmin, I learned many methods—

how to research, how to interview—

and he’s influenced my long-term thinking.

Especially looking at his grandfather’s story,

I’ve realized that exchange between China and the world

didn’t begin with Reform and Opening;

it started long ago.

When I see that photo of those boys,

I feel deeply moved.

You can see he looks a bit afraid,

not knowing where he’s going.

He lived more than a hundred years ago,

but his influence continues.

That’s why I believe exchange is essential—

we never know what results it will bring.

In the late Qing dynasty,

those boys were sent abroad to help China.

But they also helped America,

because their descendants ended up teaching Americans.

My father and his classmates all admired that teacher.

There were only 130 of those students—very few—

but their impact was enormous.

Today, many Chinese students study in the U.S.,

many Americans come to China,

Peace Corps volunteers like me,

and many others come to work here.

It’s impossible to predict what these exchanges will lead to,

but they will certainly deepen our mutual understanding.

I’m optimistic.

Maybe I’ll spend time again in the U.S.,

then in Egypt,

and someday come back to China with new perspectives.

In recent years,

every time I return to China,

I feel the changes are vast.

When I wrote River Town and Oracle Bones,

I didn’t think there would be many Chinese readers.

Usually, Chinese readers don’t care for books by foreigners;

they think foreigners criticize or mock them.

So my first book published in mainland China was Country Driving.

At the time, I thought maybe nobody would read it,

but I still wanted to publish it,

because I felt it was my responsibility.

Even if only a few people read it,

it would still matter.

I was surprised later when many Chinese readers told me,

“It’s because your perspective is different from other foreign journalists.”

But I don’t think that’s the main reason.

The real reason, I think,

is that China itself has changed.

People are more confident.

They can read books like mine

and understand that foreigners aren’t mocking them or criticizing them.

They’ve become more open to other perspectives—

and that’s a wonderful change.

In the 1990s, when I was in Fuling,

I felt that few people around me reflected on their lives.

They didn’t think much about their bodies, their cities, their existence—

which was natural,

because everything was changing so fast

and life was full of pressure.

But China today feels different.

Many people are materially comfortable,

and now they think:

Where is our country heading?

What is our life really like?

This spirit of reflection is crucial.

I know that now there are many Chinese journalists and groups

interested in nonfiction writing.

That makes me very happy,

because it shows that Chinese people

are becoming more curious about their own society,

more reflective.

I have great hopes for the next generation of Chinese journalists and writers.

They know their country far better than I ever could,

their Chinese is far superior,

and they can communicate naturally with everyone.

So I’m optimistic—

and I look forward to reading their future books.