“Stonecold” is not only his email address, but also the lingering impression that I got from him during our first class. He was among the students assigned to Sophomore Oral English during my inaugural semester at Harbin Institute of Technology. I remember that he sat on the right side of the room, distanced from the huddle of smiling eager students and not inclined to the slightest hint of enjoyment or relaxation. His dark brown eyes never broke their intensity. He sat in rigid angles that would've made any officer proud; 180 from the top of his head to his waist, and then legs bent at perfect 90 degrees. I later learned that his grandfather had been a soldier and that StoneCold came to HIT only after being denied by a military university.
He approached me after class that first day and told me that he wouldn't take an English name – something I require for the sake of avoiding mass Chinese students introducing themselves as “Lemon,” “Satan,” or “Machine.” (These are all names nominated by some students. Permission denied.) With a firm stare, he refused to be called anything but his real Chinese name, given to him by his grandfather. If I forced an English name on him, he warned me that he wouldn't answer to it. I was surprised at his defiance; teachers in China have managed to remain largely unchallenged. My response had to be quick, and I decided not to go into battle with him so early. He intrigued me, and I was willing to concede to buy some time. I acquiesced. He thanked me, bowed, and then walked out the door, tall and straight. We had no individual interaction for the next several classes. He was there on time and had the completed assignments but was aloof even with his classmates. By week four, I knew that teachers with less hours would inherit some of my classes. One of those was his. I wondered what would become of him. I prayed that his heart might be softened and that, somehow, I could get to know him.
The answer was yes.
The following semester, he appeared at one of my office hours (informal conversation times outside of class). Echoing his earlier protocol, he distantly observed me and the other students, quietly leaving before the session was finished. Several months passed. One day, he sent me a text message asking if he could stop by for a visit. So unexpected was his request that I wondered if I had done something wrong. I was perhaps as suspicious of him as I assumed he was of me. Still, I knew that face time was something I had asked for, and I wasn't about to excuse myself from it. His visit that day turned out to be innocuous. In fact, he seemed to have no real reason at all for coming over. If he had come with defenses, they were neglected once he saw my bookshelf decorated with photos and mementos from home. He studied everything and asked about the people smiling back at him from the various frames. Before he left, he presented me with a miniature catapult that he had made in one of his welding classes. I had no idea why he chose to bestow me with a medieval projectile device, but I noted it as a gesture of goodwill and was honored to be its recipient. That form of twisted metal sits on the top shelf of a curio cabinet in my living room. I'll never part with it.
By the end of the first year, I was able to recount several visits with him. He even brought a friend of his into our little circle, and the three of us had dinner together on a few occasions. One of the most outstanding features of our growing relationship, though, was the day that StoneCold and I spent together traipsing around Harbin. He had invited me on a walking tour of the city, and I immediately accepted. His initiations are more divinely promoted than he knows; if enough time passes between communications, I pray for our paths to cross again. Without fail, he always finds me within a day or two and proposes some sort of meeting. What a wonderful reassurance that asking for the right things pleases the Provider in granting them.
Our relationship is closing out its second year. For the first year, I assumed – and rightfully so – that I was being evaluated. I was under no initial pretext of friendship. I am aware of his disdain for many foreigners, especially those who – in his understanding - compromise the identity of the Chinese people with their imported theology and cultural-centrism. He knows what name and faith I represent, and one mis-step would relegate me to the ranks of “ignorant crusader.” For me, the admonition of being “wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove” is all too clear when I'm with StoneCold. I can't afford a foul.
But somewhere along the way, he softened. Maybe it's because I never decline an offer from him to do whatever it is he has nominated to do, even if it means covering the city by foot and nursing blisters for the next few days. Maybe it's because I brought him a camping hat that I purchased while Stateside for the summer. (It had LED lights in the bill. He was stoked.) Maybe it's because I don't keep my life compartmentalized; I talk about my own shortcomings as easily as I talk about what I had for breakfast. Maybe it's because I don't flinch if he wants to take me to a Buddhist temple or some other venue that might appear a challenge to my piety. Maybe it's because I spend time I don't have helping him and his friend with a project. Or maybe it's because I don't plug my American rhetoric into our conversations, especially when there's silence. Or maybe it's because I'm not afraid to laugh despite his austerity. Maybe it's because of all of those things. But all of those things go back to the One who ordained them long before they ever came to pass.
Our last outing together was a commemoration of our City Tour '09. Again, we covered Harbin with our footsteps. But something was different. I felt an ease with him that wasn't there the previous spring. We laughed more. He spoke about his family. He told me how his grandfather met his grandmother, and he laughed abundantly when I told him about mine. He ate my half of the pork leg because I couldn't bring myself to swallow pure fat. He entertained a detour to help me find food coloring. When a car came dangerously close to us as we crossed the street, he quickly outstretched his hand in a protective maneuver. Over a delicious lunch of fried lentils, chicken soup, and stir-fried wood ear (a type of mushroom), he confessed that he was glad to have someone along for an adventure or two. A year ago, none of those things would've taken place.
While I was typing and deleting and retyping the first paragraph, I started thinking about the possibility of one day showing this essay to him and watching him read about his old self and how one appointment to an English class may have changed his entire life. I would give everything for that to be so. For now, though, what is required of me is to appeal to him through unwavering friendship and determination to look beyond how ill-fitted we should be with each other. Indeed, he may be StoneCold, but water – Living Water – can gracefully carve its way straight through.
