#hua dan

[welwilliam]

My Character - “Hua Dan”.

[welwilliam]

My old character design.

Character : “Hua Dan” (character in Chinese opera)

[oibart]

dan actresses

[beccaren]

Lithograph print --- Hua Dan

This drawing on stone really took me a long time to complete because there were too much details on headwear, and the result came out good when I printed on good paper (⁎⚈᷀᷁ᴗ⚈᷀᷁⁎)

                                                     ---by Ran Ren

[yilinda-blog]

draft - A Young Father

*note: I’m exploring the idea of pursuing my writing practice here on tumblr. There’s so much material bouncing around on my computer, in my hard-drive, and in my various journals, sketchbooks and diaries. Since my tumblr’s first audience is… well me (I love the archive function which lets me take a quick peek at where I’ve been in the past month)… I figured why not insert my writings here?

A Young Father

He has a tan face and gentle looking eyes - a bit liquid, round, a dark amber. They crinkle at the corner when he smiles at me.

They aren’t smiling now.

You’re not married yet? No. You don’t have a family yet. Well, I have my mama and baba no, a family of your own. ah, no then.

“Well, it becomes much more difficult when you’ve mouths to feed and a house to keep” he says, looking at me with the liquid amber eyes, while picking at a scab with his left hand, left behind by an I.V. drip. An I.V. drip which had been threaded into a vein on his right hand. He crinkles the corners of his eyes. The corners of his mouth jump slightly upward. The smile hovering there on his lips don’t quite reach the eyes above them though, and the amber which might have been lit-to-gold remain, for the moment, dark brown and brooding.

I have a son. He’s 4. Already in kindergarten. It’s different when you have to 养家糊口, take care of a family. The pressure is enormous. you know he called me tonight? Him and his mom.

Called you? from where?

They’re in another province, another city. Heilongjiang. She’s working there, living with her parents. I’ll bring her back when my business picks up.

Anyway. 我的儿子， my son, he calls me tonight. You know what he was doing? Homework. Writing homework. Learning his characters. I mean… I wasn’t really for him taking all of those extra classes, those “补习班”。 Make up classes. What has he got to “make-up” for? He’s four! As if there’s not already enough stuff coming down from the school. Kindergarten. But what can you do? All the other kids, kids whose parents can give them a leg up — those kids are in them. If he doesn’t go, he’ll be left behind. I don’t want him to 不如群. So we put him in one. We’ll pay for it somehow.

He gives a sigh through that odd forced smile and continues:

I mean now. My kid. He has better acess to resources than you and I had back in the day. I mean I grew up in the village. You should have seen it 20 years ago… when I was his age. But I was happy. My son… I think kids these days. What they need … what they lack is 快乐. Happiness. And his teachers! I mean. Kids won’t want to learn from someone they 讨厌， someone they don’t like!

… [transition to be added]

… and that other stuff. You know the 亲子教育 They’re promoting these days? Educating us on how to be a family. Build better relationships. But I mean, you only really “need” that stuff — or can need it — after you’re better off. I mean, who has the time or energy for that when you don’t have enough 胡豆粥 to eat? I mean. things are different when you have a family.

- A young father. Age: mid-twenties. draft as part of Hua Dan Oral Histories.

[ahartsjourney-blog]

New Eyes

note to reader: this story was written in July of 2012, during Hua Dan’s 2012 “Who Am I” youth summer camp

previous story

I'm walking down a hutong, one of the small, winding alley-ways that Beijing is known for, over to a send off pizza and beer party for my new and soon to be ex apartment-mate.  As I walk down the quietly bustling street, I’m enveloped by the smell of barbecued meats and flash fried vegetables. It is just before twilight and the weather is unusually good for Beijing, or so Angela (the apartment mate) has told me. Exceptionally cool for July. It has also rained for the past 4 days. As a result, the gray mist that seems to hang perpetually in the Beijing sky has parted for a bit, and the hour before twilight colors the sky a dusky pink grey blue.  But I'm not looking at the sky. 

As my legs move forward, my eyes are drawn to the images - still and moving - all around me.  Contrast, contrast, contrast is the refrain that beats in my head.  Toiling workers shovel and pat down cement in front of chic boutiques, the contents of which I would certainly not be able to afford on my stipend. Three yards from the entrance of a high-end cocktail bar is a boy, who looks no older than 17, intently mashing a wooden pole (with a large flat end) onto individual soda cans - which will later be re-sold at the recycling plant for cash. 

I can't help but wonder if this is the sort of work that Xiaoqiang* did before becoming a member of the full time staff. I wonder if one of the men I saw, bent over and shovel in hand, also has a daughter at home, eating alone. As I wonder, my wandering feet lead me out of the hutong and back onto the loud, music blaring streets of Yonghe road. I pull out of my reverie to dodge left and then make a sharp right - weaving my way past the crowds of people. It’s easy to feel anonymous here. It’s easy to not see. 

next story

my HART fellowship

*Xiaoqiang (a nickname) is a former Hua Dan co-worker of mine who grew up in a migrant house-hold, left school early to work, and later found made way into China's NGO circle.  He is currently pursuing his own project: a documentary for and by members of [his] migrant community.

[ahartsjourney-blog]

Lily*

February 20, 2013

I'd just finished transcribing a winter camp interview today. A little girl, nine years old, who when asked if she would participate in further Hua Dan/NGO activities told: I'd like to but I don't know.  I have a little sister and my parents are never home.  Someone has to cook and take care of her. 

Another story laced with notes of amazement (on my part at her seeming maturity) and sadness (mine and hers) at a life more or less spent alone: parents present yet not.  

Echos (unsurprisingly) of Hua Dan's summer camp.  Suddenly remembering Lily*

note to reader: this story was written in July of 2012, at the beginning of Hua Dan’s 2012 “Who Am I” youth summer camp

previous story

This is our last full day of camp for the week: we are to return to the city on Friday afternoons. As a result, today’s meeting is meant to be an evaluation of our first week here. First up is Yangyang.  She tells us how proud she is of our team and the work we did this first week. She turns her attention to Xiaoqiang (a nick-name)

, this week’s main workshop leader. This is the first children’s workshop in Beijing that she hasn’t personally facilitated, Yangyang tells us. This is the first time that Xiaoqiang has surpassed his capacity as an assistant facilitator in his time with Hua Dan (3 years this coming fall). She is very proud of him. I learn from my previous conversations with Xiaoqiang that he was also a former Hua Dan workshop participant. He told me that he stopped going to school after the third year of middle school. He had been working for two years before finding Hua Dan. He is 20 this year.  “No wonder he seems old for his age”, remarks Yiting or Gabi (a summer intern from Brown). She sits beside me munching on some green bean cake pastries brought by a Hua Dan staffer. They taste like soap, she grimaces, all the while reaching for another. I swat gently at a fly humming merrily by my ear. The conversation moves onto an anecdote from today’s evening workshop. A teacher talks about a barely averted argument between two girls. Gabi perks up at this story. “Oh, I know which girl they’re talking about”, she whispers to me. “The one with the perpetual whiny voice. You know, the super clingy one”. I nod my agreement. I had noticed her too.  “Well you know, Lily* was a last minute addition to the camp”, a Hua Dan worker remarks. “She was living by herself in her school dormitories when we went by the school to confirm our schedule.”  “Why was she at the school at all?” School is out for the summer, after all. “Ta zhuzai nali. She lives there.” I also learn that Lily's* mother isn’t around. The why isn’t clear. All we know is that she lives mostly with her father, who is constantly absent as well (presumably for work). Every summer break, when the other children have gone home, she stays alone in the school dormitories.  In light of all of this, Xiaoqiang comments, her extroverted personality is a pleasant surprise.  “God I feel like such an ass”, whispers Gabi to me, with another grimace (though this time, at herself).  I’m busy thinking about a 9 year old living alone for two months. Neglect! A part of me cries. But another part of me recognizes that if her father had the resources necessary to hire a nanny, he probably would have done so. As for child protection laws in China – of course they exist. On the other hand, the reality here is that laws are selectively enforced. Resources are pooled in certain areas while other are stretched paper thin. Migrant communities, made up of “illegal” internal migrants, have little hope of seeing any of these resources. …

*"Lily"'s real name has been changed to protect her privacy.

next story

my HART fellowship

[ahartsjourney-blog]

Beginning of something beautiful

note to reader: this story was written in July of 2012, during Hua Dan’s 2012 “Who Am I” youth summer camp

previous story

The first week of camp flies by in a vivid, exhausting blur. I spend the first day busily snapping one photograph after another: of the children, of camp activities, of the small courtyard complex that will play host to our summer camp for the next 3 weeks. Bright yellow camp T-shirts are distributed that first afternoon. A group of girls, all pig-tails and braids, immediately splay the fabric over themselves in true dressing room fashion. Click. A gap-toothed boy gives me a wicked grin before sticking out his tongue for his photograph. Click. Beside the boy making faces stands the smallest boy of our group who is struggling to pull his oversized shirt over his head. Click. “What is your name? Ni de minzi shi shenme?” I ask. “W* yaxi” he answers, almost inaudibly, without making eye contact. I later learn that actually almost a year senior the other children.  The next day, I am told there has been a slight change in the camp schedule. A workshop leader had had a death in the family and returned home to make necessary arrangments. Another volunteer facilitator had been called back to the city for a last minute meeting. I’m sought out by my supervisor: “Ni mingtian dai yige gongzuofang ba. You’re going to be leading one of our workshops tomorrow”.  She hands me some material to review and tells me to coordinate with the other workshop leaders later on in the night to streamline our lesson plans.  Hao, I answer. Sure. But my stomach is jumping.  We put the (very unwilling) children to bed at 9:30pm with reminders that we have an early day ahead of us (6:45 wake up call). A general team meeting follows directly after. We do not start workshop planning until after 10. As I fight the last traces of jet-lag, I feel a mixture of discomfort, excitement, and gratefulness. This is only my third day on site (and 5th day in China) and they already have me leading workshops on my own? The responsibility intimidates me. What credentials do I have to teach migrant children self- expression through theater?  Yet I also crave meaningful work. And it’s not as if I’m completely new to Hua Dan’s methods. I don’t believe Yangyang would have assigned me lead a workshop had I not spent the previous summer working with Hua Dan’sSichuan camp. I take a deep breath and remind myself of my senior capstone project. Though not necessarily theater based, the root of my artistic interest lay in designing situations that encouraged spontaneous expression from the audience. This has not changed. I glance back down to the general lesson plan in my hands and start making notes. As I pen my first few characters, a thought flits through my tired mind: this is the beginning of something beautiful. Keep up your end of the bargain. next story

my HART fellowship