When I first moved to China in the 1990s and began teaching at a university in my Chinese home, I obviously did not belong. In my appearance, language, behavior, and worldview, I was a 外国人^ℹ️ which could literally be translated “foreign outsider.” In seeming attempts to help me fit in, people would frequently offer advice. I remember one student’s comment, “My classmates and I have discussed it, and we have decided you shouldn’t wear that outfit.” Perhaps the color, which was as green as I was inexperienced, did not appeal.

Over the years, suggestions like my student’s piled up, about my clothing or appearance, sometimes my behavior or teaching, but mostly in cooler weather about my need to bundle up. By the middle of my time in China during some Chinese language study in the far north, I had become accustomed to donning extra layers especially in the colder temperatures of the Northeast. There, my first exposure to winter social conventions came with the development of my language proficiency, and I was bemused by exchanges between friends as autumn temperatures plunged into winter. “It’s supposed to get really cold tomorrow. Make sure to wear long underwear.”

Back in my Chinese home as buildings became better insulated and heating systems switched from coal to gas, discussing the state of one’s “underwear” slowly disappeared from personal interactions but not from social convention. On a recent day in late fall, the daily weather text from the local meteorological bureau included this advice (as translated by me): “The public should pay attention to the plummeting temperatures. Please put on more clothes without delay in order to keep warm!” Including your long underwear, of course.

Suggestions about bundling up and other advice came from various sources including complete strangers. My experiences with stranger advice were mild in comparison to some of my expat friends. The more vulnerable the person, it seemed, the stronger and more frequent the suggestions. If people couldn’t communicate their advice to young monolingual teachers who were new to China, they would pass it on to me or another bilingual individual, presumably hoping we would take responsibility for their well-being. Even fiercer were the cold-weather conversations I witnessed between locals and expats with young children. In order to satisfy the neighborhood 奶奶^ℹ️, grannies, children apparently needed to be bundled up to the point of suffocation or better yet left at home.

Initially, I was taken aback by such advice. Sometimes my independent American spirit was offended that people doubted my ability to care for myself. At other times, I simply laughed their counsel off. Then, ten years into my life in China, students in one of my culture courses explained that offering advice is a way to demonstrate care. Although their clarifications made advice more palatable, I still self-sufficiently refused to follow it. Gradually, my understanding grew. The proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child,” is perhaps a good description of Chinese society (though it is not a Chinese proverb). Rather than the individual, the village is the smallest unit in society, and for the good of the group, it takes care of its own, especially the weakest members. In China it takes a village to raise a child, care for the elderly, assimilate a foreigner, and keep everyone safe and healthy, not to mention warm.

During the COVID-10 pandemic, my participation in China’s rolling lockdowns was a taste of how the “village” works. During the initial lockdown in early 2020, the loose group in our neighborhood compound solidified as we were confined to the complex for two months. In an effort to protect our “village,” extra fences went up blocking off the adjacent university campus, and the gate was carefully guarded. Only residents were allowed in across the disinfectant-saturated carpet, and only one member of each family was allowed out every few days to purchase necessities. For those who were too frail to go out and not tech-savvy enough to buy online, the neighborhood association delivered supplies. Thankfully, unlike other complexes around the city and country, my neighbors and I were allowed out in our compound for exercise. Masked and socially distanced for the good of the group, we compared notes, commiserated, and of course swapped advice. They directed me to wear a mask while I reminded them to wash their hands. In this way, we forged deeper relationships.

In the years that followed the initial lockdown, my neighbors’ advice extended beyond the usual comments about the need to dress more warmly. “I haven’t seen you for a while,” one might say to another, adding, “Are you okay? You need to take care of yourself.” If they saw someone leaving the compound pulling a travel bag, inevitably someone would worriedly query, “Where are you going?” In my case when I reassured them that I was just headed to my nearby office with a heavier than usual load, they responded with relief and then warned against venturing outside the cocoon of our neighborhood village. (I stopped using that method to transport loads.) Many of my neighbors asked with concern after my family members. Some would add, “You should bring your dad here (to our compound) to live with you. It’s safer.”

One day in between lockdowns, I stopped in the neighborhood print shop. The young man who works there, previously too shy to undertake a conversation with the foreigners, reached out and fingered the sleeve of my hoodie. “你冷吗?”^ℹ️ “Aren’t you cold?” he asked. “Your jacket’s not thick enough.” He was right. I was slightly chilly, but I walked home snug in the warmth of his words. Line me up with my neighbors for a “Which one does not belong?” exercise, and I’m the obvious choice, not simply because of my appearance but also because of my behavior and beliefs. Yet, they have made me feel like I belong. They have bundled this foreign outsider into their village not unlike the Good Shepherd securing His lost sheep back in the fold.

Photo by Engin Akyurt