March 1999

When I was 17, I read an article about friendship in a fashion magazine. The writer described how angry she had become when a girlfriend cancelled a date at the last minute to go out with a new guy. She ended that friendship.

I have since learned that friendship choices are not so black and white, that there are more shades of grey in life than there are on the latest Macintosh computer. But the story did help define my idea of friendship; it clarified the borders of my personal world as I struggled with a tumultuous adolescence and emerging adulthood. A few months after the story, my best friend at the time cancelled a movie date two hours before the showing - albeit for another girlfriend - but it was enough to cause a rift between us. Her peace offering (a homemade apple pie) did nothing to lesson my resolve to cut her off. We didn't talk again for five years.

Through the stormy years of estrangement from my parents, the break-ups and make-ups with various boyfriends, the assorted jobs-from-hell and beyond, my friends were my shelter in the tornado's eye. They were the ones I turned to for advice when my first boss told me lurid stories from his corner office in the World Trade Center. They were the ones who accompanied me through grueling aerobic conventions where we exercised non-stop for five hours (to get our money's worth). And when I moved out from the apartment I shared with my college boyfriend, they helped me pick out the single-serving microwave entrees at the supermarket. I, in turn, listened attentively to their every lost job opportunity, and the pros and cons of every big decision. Late night confidences and secrets shared sealed our bond.

In China I expected to make the same life-long connections. People, I reasoned, are the same everywhere. On the level of our souls, we are all simply looking for contact. The more my Chinese improved, the more I turned to local friends for the same easy sharing of inner thoughts. But the pattern was different here.

Conversations imbued with lost dreams and vague hopes did not end in the same closeness. Instead, inner emotions expressed in a quiet moment seemed more a cause for embarrassment and awkward departures. Those who were more "westernized" seem to have another agenda. "Let's be friends" became a synonym for "help me practice English." I stopped talking.

To compensate for the lack of carefree conversations and shared experiences, letters home became volumes in small type. It didn't help that friends would write back and encourage me (in pithy letters) to "write a book!" It did little to solve the problem of who to share my feelings with. My answer to "How's China?" was usually "Okay, but I have no friends here!"

But in the search for friendship I had overlooked Sandy. She didn't fit my definition. She was not a good listener to my China woes. She did not relate to why I became so incensed over outdated milk at the market. "Next time check the date," she would advise. She was not the best company to watch Men in Black because she didn't get half the jokes. And persuading her to express an opinion on anything was like pulling teeth.

But she did listen to me. She would sit with impassive features as I vented my frustrations, my anger, and my despair. She never expressed judgement or criticism, only quiet acceptance.

She was helping me on a project. Simple record keeping, basic supervising and general all-around help were all that I asked of her. Then the project went south. Papers filed with the wrong department, missing data, missed deadlines - all were things I failed to do. And now trouble loomed.

Whispered conversations behind closed doors brought news of dire consequences. Her soothing voice listed my limited options. And slowly a clearer picture emerged.

She had fixed it. But the solution had required more than basic labors on her part. She had put her own position at risk, against the advice of friends and family. Where most people would have crumbled, she had stood firm - and saved my project.

"I was 17 when I was sent to the countryside," Sandy told me. "I went with two yuan in my pocket to a farm a 17-hour train ride from home. I didn't know where my next meal would come from. I stayed 10 years. When you go through that, nothing seems that hard anymore."

I used to think that endurance was an over-rated Chinese virtue. I thought that it explained the passivity of the locals, creating a people that did not demand the "very best," but tolerated the very worst. I see now that even in this, things are never that black and white.

Sandy's strength lies in her endurance. Having endured, she can now face any fire - without trumpets or song. Ever so gently, she has taught me the strength of humility and patience. And above all, she has taught me about a courage that needs no acknowledgement.

Sandy does not confide her secrets in me. Nor would I choose her to be my drinking buddy. But she is a friend. She has taught me that my idea of original friendship has long gone out of style. Now when those back home ask, "Have you made any friends?" I say yes - a better friend than I could have hoped for.