What is the history of marching band uniforms? Can I blame America for this madness? It’s wrong, so very wrong. I was never a band geek, maybe I don’t appreciate the ritualistic significance of marching band yifu.

Shenzhen, November 6, 2007.

Sweet little girl, I don’t know your name. Tai ke ai le, is the Chinese: Too cute. I wish
you luck, competing in the speaking contest.

Battle reenactment, Splendid China Theme Park, Shenzhen, PRC. October 17, 2006.

Splendid China is a great place to visit. The battle reenactment as well as the numerous cultural areas are something to see.

Once upon a time, in small Northern, Ontario (Canada) town, Stevo was a reporter. Some more pretentious people like to call themselves journalists. I don’t. I was a reporter, and a photographer for a weekly newspaper with a circulation of 14000.

I didn’t like it, most of the time. Driving to car accidents late at night to take ghoulish photographs, and talking to the next-of-kin for the story that followed didn’t sit well with me. When I was able to write the stories I wanted it was great fun. Driving around town on a sunny Friday afternoon, my Minolta SLR on the seat next to me, looking for possible stand-alone photographs, was a joy.

What I miss now is the rush. No, not sitting at a computer writing copy, that was as boring and tedious as an episode of Everyone Loves Raymond. Being in the field: A press conference, event or scrum, was a dog-eat-dog experience. That was the rush. All the photographers angled for a shot. They jostled each other trying to get into position to capture something different that would set their publication apart from all the others.

In most of those situations you had a few moments to take your photos before the subject moved along. It was a challenge, that one-upmanship against your competitors. Who knew I would find that rush again as an ESL teacher in China.

My school is hosting a track and field event for the entire district. I was drafted onto the school photography team to cover the opening ceremonies. I don’t know if was my talent (I may have some), or the fact I have a decent camera and gear that garnered the position. Yesterday I placed the all-access laminate around my neck, filled my pockets with memory cards and batteries, and set off.

The press were there. One newspaper photographer carried a Canon camera and lens combo worth six months of my salary. The event started and I slipped back into my former self. I dashed around, looking for the best vantage point. I tried to anticipate what would happen next.

I whispered to myself, “Get out of my shot,” as the photographer with the expensive camera upstaged me.

“Look this way, sweetheart,” I said under my breath as the colorful school girls paraded by, hoping for eye contact and a decent photo.

Two hours later I had shot 1500 images. Maybe 300 will be good enough to pass along. Not all of us get to revisit our glory days, I was happy to have had the opportunity. I miss it the way an addict misses their favorite substance.

“Lao shi! Lao shi,” called the old woman. I was walking across the lobby of the library building that holds my office. She was a typical Chinese grandmother, with a round, lined face, and a generous smile. Her once-raven hair was shot with grey. Her Mandarin was tainted with a Cantonese accent.

I stopped. Why do I always seem to be called upon to speak Chinese when still groggy from a nap? She approached, a quick shuffle across the white tiles. Her granddaughter, a chubby Grade 2 student, stood a few paces away. Behind her, two green-shirted cleaners sat on a bench. I lifted the sunglasses from eyes, a final indicator that I was not in fact Chinese, in case my skin, hair and size had not been a give away.

“Lao shi, xue xiao de yi fu zai na li?” she asked.

I didn’t understand. The Mandarin, full of Guangdong pronunciations, and my semi-awake state had me at a loss.

“Ting bu dong,” I replied.

She waved over her granddaughter. The girl rolled her eyes, and sighed. I could almost read her thoughts: Me, talk to the foreigner?

“Yi fu?” asked the old woman again.

I understood before she pinched the girl’s shirt. Where are the school clothes, she was asking. The first floor of my building is often used to distribute the blue and white uniforms worn by the students.

“Bu zhe dao,” I said. It was true, I didn’t know.

The cleaners piped up, one standing from the bench she had been lounging on. “Ta ting bu dong,” she said. The other repeated the line to emphasis my lack of understanding, and stupidity.

“Wo dong,” I said, “Yi fu, bu zhe dao.”

Then I did what I often do in such situations: I smiled.

“Ta ting bu dong,” called the cleaners.

I grinned like an idiot and shrugged.

“Lao shi,” said the old woman.

“Ting bu dong,” I said, admitting defeat and allowing for an easy escape. For once I had understood. She didn’t understand me. Such is my life.

Halloween is a relatively new concept in China. The party we held last year was a hands-down success. This year’s was the same. How can you not have fun with paper plate masks? Halloween costumes are another story.

Many have blogged All Hallows and their exploits:

David’s holiday movie picks and cider lamentations are for the bold and brave. Amuirin at Stop and Wonder did a wonder piece on The Day of Dead festival and what the Halloween candy you distribute says about you. Bibliomom costumed her blog for the day. Jay Nova (adore him) offered a Samhain meditation. Robin provided the blogosphere with a suitable Halloween image.

While most of you are waking up Saturday morning I will be clad in a snazzy white suit, hosting a show with 86 international performers. This is my first step towards international stardom, or termination and deportation.