Foreigner and Teapot

Written by Beth Tianxin Xia.

At around 4 pm, two girls arrived at my favourite table by the window, one chai latte and one americano. The warm afternoon sun lit half of their face while the velvet curtain kept the rest in the shade, like an oil painting, I thought. 

The alternating burble and hiss of the espresso machine commanded the start of the conversation, although the gist, their upcoming move of flat, I managed to catch. “I’m finally able to cook, it’s actually so exciting!” The milk frother shuddered to a stop and the girl’s words ran clear through the cafe. The weather looked too good, it was the type of weather for eating strawberries and roaming aimlessly in the city. Yet, I was stuck behind the counter, with chit-chats of strangers entering my ears. “And the flatmates?” “Oh two I get along with, you should meet Alex, she’s so silly. And… there’s one Chinese flatmate that we don’t really talk to — or she doesn’t talk to us, rather.” 

The moment she said the word “Chinese,” her voice suddenly lowered. I can’t tell if it’s because of me or if people just always do that. Curiosity bent my ear closer to their conversation. I bet that’s just an instinct — it’s what you do after people suddenly lower their voices, which has nothing to do with the trigger word. Look, the word “Chinese” is not prohibited, and I’m too lazy to police people even if they say something, unusual. 

“Isn’t that weird? The people in my class too! They only hang out amongst themselves.” She said passionately, with a light frown on her delicate face. “Like hello, you’re HERE! What’s the point of going to a new country if you don’t want to embrace its culture?” She paused, and was greeted with a thoughtful nod. “If I go to another country, I will definitely try to engage with the locals.” “Yeah same! My friend Mark is a GREAT example, he’s from Australia. He’s been to, like, 20 or 30 countries, and he always tries new things. We became friends while he was visiting here last year. I think he’s doing Tonga next, such a cool guy!” 

I imagined Mark, a tall and tanned young man, with a celebrity’s smile. His teeth were so white that I had to close my eyes. Mark sits on the Meadow, saying country names one after another, while the wind cooperatively blows his brown hair, as if he’s a brave Endeavour sailor. 

I’m not going to tell you how I felt about, well, you know, how they talked about my people. When your colleague complains about someone you also don’t get along with, it’s always a relief that YOU are not the one saying it. You listen to your colleague, with a light smile, not disagreeing with them. Mean! I hear you say. But imagine how exhausted I am, having to actively disentangle myself from these stereotypes at every encounter, every day, week, year. Now who put the stereotype there in the first place? I’m not supposed to say this, but do me a favour, my cousins, and be like Mark. Can’t you all just be like Mark? If they can all be entertaining and pleasant like Mark, maybe I would never suffer from the judgements. 

I must have been smiling in agreement, because the antique teapot — sold to me by Rosemary the local witch, whom I met at the gardening meetup — is glaring at me with spite. Rosemary needed money, so she had to sadly let go of this precious East-Asian pot, and I was so intrigued by a talking tea pot I paid more than a month’s of rent for it. I left for the kitchen, holding my teapot. Witchcraft is not uncommon, nor is overhearing your customers’ conversations, but I don’t want any drama. “What!” I complained, “You don’t think they have a point?” The teapot hummed, annoyingly superior yet its words were soft-spoken, poetic. “Ah, one English person. Talking to another English person about cultural openness. I suppose Chai and coffee beans are exotic indeed, in a historical way.” My god, this piece of clay has so little going on, it must be resorting to sordid comments about my customers! “What about this? Ever since I got here, people assumed I was uninterested, rude, deaf to the language, and blind to the culture before they even met me. I have to casually namedrop popular TV shows and celebrities to prove I’m part of this culture — don’t you think I’m a victim to their stubbornness?” 

“Oh, poor dear Xin,” the teapot chided benevolently; it spoke slowly, probably thinking of itself as some kind of guru, “Imagine they moved to a different country as they mentioned — imagine they moved to China. You know what it’s like, Xin, you’ve met foreigners in China. They make Western 

friends, go to Western-looking bars, maybe take up a Gu Zheng or calligraphy class — to add a dash of authentic flavour to the experience.” My teapot’s favourite pastime is creating fictional scenarios and then relentlessly judging its characters. Arguably unfair, but then so did my customers, rewarding themselves so delightedly for their self-proclaimed openness. 

Maybe the teapot’s argumentative nature was getting the better of me, but I felt the slow tendrils of doubt creep into my mind. What WOULD these two customers do if they were in China? Would they really make friends with local students who don’t speak their language and are not interested in their culture, go to karaoke with them, sing Chinese pop songs together? My thoughts race back 

to over a decade ago to when I first left home, when I was isolated from my language and my past. To find comfort, all my friends were Chinese, all I spoke was Mandarin, and I talked about locals like they were foreigners. I was there, but now I’m here, eager to prove to my white counterparts that I’m not like them. 

I left the teapot behind and returned to the front. My customers had left. The emptied cups stood quietly on the wooden table, half-lit by the sunlight, half-covered in the shade. Tidying up their table, I thought to myself, I swear I’m not a racist, I’m just being real.