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| [a] High school RL |
During the last two weeks of July and into early August I will be posting segments from my project dealing with five Chinese mountains that are often referred to as "the sacred mountains of China." They represent each of the "five directions" found in early Chinese thought (think of the ones you know and then add the middle as the fifth); they have figured prominently in Chinese political culture, travel, and religion for 3,000 years. I have spent almost 400 days on the mountains, and am working on a series of books that detail the mountains and their "home" areas. Mountains were said to connect earth (thought to be "square") with heaven (thought to be "round"). The entire project is called—this may or may not surprise you—Round and Square.
One volume is planned for each mountain, beginning with the southern peak, Mt. Heng, in Hunan province. The reasoning behind this choice of a starting place took me months to develop, but suffice it to say that these books will take the reader up and down each of the five sacred (sometimes called "Daoist") mountains and around the lunar calendar in an exploration of Chinese life and culture. As an introduction to the series, I have included an introduction that is based on a recent book proposal and a full "sample" table of contents. These are followed by twelve "scenes" from Longevity Mountain that are meant to give readers a sense of the project as a whole. Photographs used in this series were taken during my travels, unless otherwise indicated. My photos are marked "RL."
Scene Ten
Academy On High |
| [b] Line RL |
The wooden sign points me toward the steps to the Yehou Academy. The markers themselves are somewhat ironic on a mountain that is as well organized as this one. Two stick figures, the taller in front, the shorter following, lean forward with seeming effort; they have square packs on their backs and carry hiking sticks.
游步道
Line
I follow the line, leaning forward, pack on my own back. The only thing different from the sign I just passed is that I lack a walking stick and a shorter companion. Even the signs in China assume that people hike together.
游步道
Line
I follow the line, leaning forward, pack on my own back. The only thing different from the sign I just passed is that I lack a walking stick and a shorter companion. Even the signs in China assume that people hike together.
I reach a set of worn steps, thick with moss, curving up to a red gate with a tile roof. Sun streams through the curved gate, and I want to take this path, if only to feel the carpet of moss under my feet. I resist. I have visited the academy before, and this is the rear entrance. Thirty minutes from now, it will be my exit as I descend the mossy steps and regain the trail. For now, I move forward up the main trail, with the academy walls along my right.
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| [c] Cheng-juice RL |
A vending location (with the stone longevity peak altar serving as the center) appears amid the trees, and there is a lively discussion going on. I stop for a bottle of orange juice. The woman behind the bottled drink altar twists her head as I speak. She doesn’t understand me. I say it again—one bottle of chengzhi. She looks at the bottles and back at me. Finally, I point to the orange juice. Two students, suddenly roused from their examination of bracelets by the confusion, exclaim together “Oh! You mean cengzi!”
If it were just the woman on the mountain selling drinks, I would surely let it go—out of both courtesy and respect for local ways—but two college students with more than twelve years of Mandarin textbook instruction are just too tempting a target for my summer-deprived pedagogical instincts. I smile at them, pause, and articulate slowly, in the manner of Mandarin instruction textbooks:
—chi-eng, cheng zhi, zhi—chengzhi
They immediately recognize the pronunciation pattern, and are abashed. One says, “We can’t help it, we’re southerners!” The other says, “We all talk this way; we can’t say those chs and zhs right!” (English speakers can hear this if they think “chur” as in “churn” and “jer” as in “jerkey”). Teachers have been “correcting” them in just the way I did…for years. The pull of culture—and one’s home language—is powerful. For all of us, all of the time.
If it were just the woman on the mountain selling drinks, I would surely let it go—out of both courtesy and respect for local ways—but two college students with more than twelve years of Mandarin textbook instruction are just too tempting a target for my summer-deprived pedagogical instincts. I smile at them, pause, and articulate slowly, in the manner of Mandarin instruction textbooks:
—chi-eng, cheng zhi, zhi—chengzhi
They immediately recognize the pronunciation pattern, and are abashed. One says, “We can’t help it, we’re southerners!” The other says, “We all talk this way; we can’t say those chs and zhs right!” (English speakers can hear this if they think “chur” as in “churn” and “jer” as in “jerkey”). Teachers have been “correcting” them in just the way I did…for years. The pull of culture—and one’s home language—is powerful. For all of us, all of the time.
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| [d] Mountainside language camp RL |
And this—language is culture—is the most important point of all, and it is what the four of us talk about for the next few minutes.
Such moments are not worthy of pride, and it is only in such humorous and ironic situations that it could possibly be taken in a proper manner. Consider such a situation in a grocery store line:
—I think you split the infinitive in that sentence.
In that context, the relative dangers are obvious. In fact, though, there is an even more important sociolinguistic point behind our little drama. Somehow, the idea persists (and it is rooted in the educational systems of the People’s Republic of China, the Republic of China in Taiwan, in Singapore, and beyond) that what English speakers call “Mandarin Chinese” can even out the great mountains and valleys of language and culture.
It cannot, and it never will. The students’ “mispronunciation” is just plain culture, and I tell them so as we chat. It is ironic that they were so sure that they were right (because it was "natural") that they jumped into the fray to help the foreigner. We discuss areas of English in which foreign students have no problem at all, yet native speakers cannot “hear” their grammatical “errors.” I use one of the most obvious, saying:
Such moments are not worthy of pride, and it is only in such humorous and ironic situations that it could possibly be taken in a proper manner. Consider such a situation in a grocery store line:
—I think you split the infinitive in that sentence.
In that context, the relative dangers are obvious. In fact, though, there is an even more important sociolinguistic point behind our little drama. Somehow, the idea persists (and it is rooted in the educational systems of the People’s Republic of China, the Republic of China in Taiwan, in Singapore, and beyond) that what English speakers call “Mandarin Chinese” can even out the great mountains and valleys of language and culture.
It cannot, and it never will. The students’ “mispronunciation” is just plain culture, and I tell them so as we chat. It is ironic that they were so sure that they were right (because it was "natural") that they jumped into the fray to help the foreigner. We discuss areas of English in which foreign students have no problem at all, yet native speakers cannot “hear” their grammatical “errors.” I use one of the most obvious, saying:
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| [e] The Way...of language RL |
—A person should pay attention to their belongings.
—No, a person should pay attention to her belongings!...or his!
Exactly. The enterprising students have no problem hearing the “number” error that the vast majority of Americans cannot fathom. They have tapped into "the Way" (道).
It pays to be a native speaker, I say, except about .03% of the time. Then foreigners understand it better. These are only “errors” for people who think rules can brush aside how we live and speak. Language is culture, and we (all four of us—students, orange drink seller, and I) are just animals who know how to talk. They laugh, and I wish them well before returning to the trail. Still, the larger lesson (“don’t feel bad; language is culture”) does not take root completely. As I move almost out of earshot, one of them says, “That’s embarrassing—the foreigner gave us a language lesson.”
It is perhaps fitting that an educational institution stands at the top of the ridge I am climbing. Cars and motorcycles whir in the distance, and it is a strange feeling to be alone on a forest trail with the sounds of Main Street in the distance. I come to the top of the ridge, see clearly the winding blacktop source of the engine noise, and consider my plan.
—No, a person should pay attention to her belongings!...or his!
Exactly. The enterprising students have no problem hearing the “number” error that the vast majority of Americans cannot fathom. They have tapped into "the Way" (道).
It pays to be a native speaker, I say, except about .03% of the time. Then foreigners understand it better. These are only “errors” for people who think rules can brush aside how we live and speak. Language is culture, and we (all four of us—students, orange drink seller, and I) are just animals who know how to talk. They laugh, and I wish them well before returning to the trail. Still, the larger lesson (“don’t feel bad; language is culture”) does not take root completely. As I move almost out of earshot, one of them says, “That’s embarrassing—the foreigner gave us a language lesson.”
It is perhaps fitting that an educational institution stands at the top of the ridge I am climbing. Cars and motorcycles whir in the distance, and it is a strange feeling to be alone on a forest trail with the sounds of Main Street in the distance. I come to the top of the ridge, see clearly the winding blacktop source of the engine noise, and consider my plan.
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| [f] Seek, pursue RL |
Still wondering if it was a good idea to correct native pronunciation (even in my own defense, since I was incorrectly corrected, after all), I turn onto the flat stone path leading to the Yehou Academy. Lined by cedars, the narrow outer gate—just wide enough to fit the path—is covered by a single tiled roof. Ordinary, painted characters line both poles (they can hardly be called pillars), and a black sign gives the name of the complex, Yehou Academy. Moss, pine needles, and fallen leaves cover the broken tiles of the roof, as well as the stones to the side of the path.
鄴候書院
求 求
功 学
名
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| [g] Opening RL |
The third character on the right side seems to be missing. It makes enough sense grammatically, but the lack of symmetry is preposterous. Such situations (parallel posts) require parallel constructions, and the need to fit ideas into framed patterns goes far beyond architecture. What I often call the “columnar aesthetic” when describing the organization of Chinese almanacs is at play here, as well—even in the negative. It looks like a pair of shoes, but with one of them lacking a heel….or a car with a flat front tire. This peculiar phrasing strikes me as part of the original academy ideal, though, and I expect that I will see it again before I have hiked through its several acres of flattened plateau along the ridge. From above (left to right, across) and down, right to left:
Yehou Academy
Seek Study
Seek a distinguished name
Yehou Academy
Seek Study
Seek a distinguished name
I walk through the small arch and realize that it is not a great deal bigger than some of the rock openings I encountered in the Forest of Poetry. A long corridor with overarching cedar follows, and I can barely make out a painted figure of a robed man through the second set of equally small columns. It occurs to me that this place, as an academic institution, might have served children, who would be more powerfully impressed by the little gates through which I just passed.
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| [i] Swoop RL |
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| [h] Unencumbered RL |
Looking at the column, I am called to question the judgment of the painter further up the path, if not the columnar aesthetic itself. On the right column are five characters—the very same five that were divided three and two on the outer gate.
求学求功名
Seek study; seek (a) distinguished name.
Seek study; seek (a) distinguished name.
The gate is chipped and fragmented, and on the right I can make out only the barest outlines of a few characters before I get to the crack that shows the plaster underneath. On the left, there are no cracks, but the text is indecipherable.
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| [j] Nature RL |
I always wonder how long it takes for a location such as this to break down and begin its return from carved culture back to nature. It may not be as long as we would like to think. An abandoned farmhouse is unlivable in just a few years. Floors sag, moisture seeps in, termites gather, and beams give way. A shopping center closes and the parking lot looks like a meadow in just a few summers. I often imagine an academy such as this one being lost in the confusion of China’s frenzied mid-nineteenth century, now overgrown by 150 years of nature’s payback. In fact, it has only been a few decades. A stone outside of the main hall gives the story. It was founded (in a different location) in the Tang dynasty (618-906), and carried its pupils through several name changes and centuries until the present location became permanent in 1744. It was completely rebuilt in 1932.
I think about it; 1932 isn’t bad. It seems that the academy was being rebuilt just as Marcel Granet was in the transition between La civilisation chinoise (1929) and La pensée chinoise (1934). The academy’s origins in the Tang dynasty and connections even to the great official Han Yu (768-824) make it formidable, indeed, and there are signs of a rebuilding process at least partly underway as I walk the grounds. Partly.
I think about it; 1932 isn’t bad. It seems that the academy was being rebuilt just as Marcel Granet was in the transition between La civilisation chinoise (1929) and La pensée chinoise (1934). The academy’s origins in the Tang dynasty and connections even to the great official Han Yu (768-824) make it formidable, indeed, and there are signs of a rebuilding process at least partly underway as I walk the grounds. Partly.
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| [k] Culture RL |
The courtyard is dotted with mossy trees of a certain age—many duly marked in the mountain’s notation system.
0452 Platycladus orientalis (L.) Franco.
The area is overgrown, but hardly lost to nature, and one sign of culture’s resurgence are the light blue plastic chairs and orange buckets in the courtyard area. In addition, I can hear a television. 1300 years and a few lost decades cannot stop the resiliency of that medium, which seems more powerful even than cable cars. Inside one door there are cushioned kneelers and an altar. The yellow banners to the left and right proclaim the figure in the center “ten years prime minister,” and there are red notes pasted behind him, as well as offerings (four plastic water bottles) in front. The water bottles are tempting on a hot day, but I could not bear the sacrilege, even in a merely academic setting.
0452 Platycladus orientalis (L.) Franco.
The area is overgrown, but hardly lost to nature, and one sign of culture’s resurgence are the light blue plastic chairs and orange buckets in the courtyard area. In addition, I can hear a television. 1300 years and a few lost decades cannot stop the resiliency of that medium, which seems more powerful even than cable cars. Inside one door there are cushioned kneelers and an altar. The yellow banners to the left and right proclaim the figure in the center “ten years prime minister,” and there are red notes pasted behind him, as well as offerings (four plastic water bottles) in front. The water bottles are tempting on a hot day, but I could not bear the sacrilege, even in a merely academic setting.
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| [l] Down...and back up RL |
As I leave through the back exit that tempted me on the trip up the ridge, I look at its red gate, which is badly in need of paint. There, again, are the five characters, three on one column, two on another—this time created by cutting and twisting yellow construction tape. The mystery grows, however, because there are yellow painted characters beneath the tape. There, the five-character phrase—Seek study, seek a distinguished name—is set off to the right. I can barely make out the five character phrase on the left, but my sense of proportion has begun to return. Here, there are five characters on each side—parallel phrases, and a columnar aesthetic has finally been restored to my Chinese mountain world. I look more carefully, but cannot make out the first two characters under the wads of tape.
x x 南天门
x x (the) South Gate (of) Heaven
Even without being able to decipher the first two characters, I can sense that it is a proper sentiment, and maybe even a spur to action. I reposition my backpack, take care descending the mossy steps, and make my way for that very destination—the South Gate of Heaven.
x x 南天门
x x (the) South Gate (of) Heaven
Even without being able to decipher the first two characters, I can sense that it is a proper sentiment, and maybe even a spur to action. I reposition my backpack, take care descending the mossy steps, and make my way for that very destination—the South Gate of Heaven.
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| [m] On to south heaven gate RL |
NEXT
Carvings and Caverns
Helping a lone brown spider to safety, I reflect upon "wildlife," carving, and what might be hidden under that big lump of dirt in the cave just off the path.
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