What’s your name? For third-culture kids living in Beijing, a seemingly straightforward question such as this is wrought with complexity. Names are often the first things you learn about a person, not to mention the first thing you’re taught about yourself. They play a critical role in shaping our identity and the ways we move about the world. As a result, it makes sense that so many of us spend years grappling with that question.

From nicknames to English names through to Chinese names, we asked three Beijing teens to tell us about their names and what they mean to them.

Meet XueFei Liu

I’m often faced with the question: “Do you prefer XueFei or Rosalind?”

To be honest, I used to prefer XueFei, which prompts the obvious question, “Then why did you have Rosalind?”

My reason for choosing an English name was very disheartening. I was so sick of being bullied in primary school for my Chinese name by teachers and students that I decided to come up with an English name. For once, I ignored my parents’ advice. When I was reading Shakespeare’s As You Like It, the name Rosalind called out to me, and I settled on it. Going back to school with an English name made me feel different. People no longer pronounced my name wrong, no longer gave me silly nicknames, nor laughed at my name. So, for four years, I was proud of being Rosalind.

But when I hit freshmen year and transferred schools, COVID-19 forced us into quarantine and gave me time to think. And I started to realize that Rosalind wasn’t that perfect anymore. Walking down the halls with an English name was what I wanted, but it was hiding my Chinese identity. So, when I returned to campus during sophomore year, XueFei started appearing on my tests, reports, and signatures. That’s when it dawned on me. I realized that Rosalind and XueFei are equally important to my identity, and I didn’t need to ditch one part of me for the other. While my papers are all signed with XueFei, my friends and teachers call me Rosalind. Going back to the original question, here’s my answer: I prefer both, and it’s amazing being in the best of both worlds.

Meet TianTian Xu

My name is TianTian and no, I don’t have an English name. TianTian is my English name and my Chinese name.

“TianTian” means “sky sky,” or “day day,” or simply, “every day.”  My parents gave me this name because they thought it would be easy to pronounce in both English and Chinese. But it turns out nothing is ever easy when it comes to names, especially for those of us living between two cultures.

In the US, people hesitate before reading out my name or don’t bother trying. I joined a Zoom webinar-based in the states this year and was the only person whose name was not read aloud with their question. In China, the statement, “My name is TianTian” is always followed by, “But what’s your full name?” because it’s so hard for people to believe my real name would be so simple, a nickname typically given to children.

In international schools, it’s almost expected that you have a Westernized English name. My fifth grade English class in Beijing briefly knew me as Skye, a name that never felt mine. Never underestimate the subtle peer pressure of being the only one in a class of 20 without an English name during rollcall.

But I don’t want to change my name for the convenience of others and to avoid standing out anymore. Just like our identities as third-culture kids, my name falls between two cultures. Blending in was never an option.

It is my choice and my honor to be TianTian, every day.

Meet Tadej Trpkoski

I see my name as a representation of two things: my cultural and personal identity. Both of these things make my name what it is, and a change in either would alter my perception of my own name. The simplicity of my nickname, T, allows me to merge both of these concepts and create a solid self-identity which I am happy with, by keeping a part of my old name inside, and to fit in better with the new people that I meet thanks to the brief structure and simple pronunciation. When moving to a new place, I believe it is important to be able to merge with the new culture that you encounter. While this can’t always be accomplished with a name change, someone who is in my position – having to sort of start over in life and get to know an entirely new world, almost – should switch some aspect of their name in order to fit their foreign status better.

KEEP READING: How To Get a WeChat Name That Doesn’t Suck

Images: Uni You

This article appeared in the jingkids 2021 July-August issue

This time last summer, an editor from Jingkids asked me to write a food review on a Turkish restaurant for the annual Teen Takeover issue.

The idea both excited and terrified me. I hadn’t eaten out at a restaurant in months. I’d never interviewed anyone, never published anything I’ve written, and certainly never tried Turkish food.

But sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith.

That article I never could have imagined myself writing ended up changing my life. Thanks to editors like Mina Yan at Jingkids for giving me the opportunity to take that first step—a first step that led to a Jingkids internship, nearly a dozen bylines, and the skills that helped me bring our school magazine back to life.

This summer, I’m back as the first student Managing Editor of the annual Teen Takeover— the same issue that started me on this journey.

For the first time, this special issue of our magazine is produced almost entirely by students under 18, some as young as 13, working in almost every department, from editors to photographers to designers to writers.

I’ve learned so much from everyone here. From our lunch time hangouts to in-office jokes to the draft after draft I’ve received every day since the start of the month, you’ve pushed me to become a better editor, writer, and person.

Growing up is hard. Even now, writing this editor’s note, I’m rereading every word, terrified of the idea of others reading what I’ve written and what they might think. It’s just as scary as taking the first step outside to write my first article. But without that first step I wouldn’t be where I am today, sharing with you all the wonderful stories we came up with under the theme “lessons on growing up”.

Even though we can’t travel outside of China, there are plenty of places sunny and sandy near Beijing to explore (p 20). Don’t forget to grab your bags, cause we’re packing these three fun books that’ll make you seem like a literature genius to mom and dad (p 10).

Frustrated by the heat? Keep cool with these traditional Beijing ice creams (p 28) while discovering the hidden stories behind your favorite Beijing destinations (p 26).

Find out what teens today think about curfews (p 32), tiger moms (p 37), and the ever-present struggles of navigating long-distance friendships (p 14). Read about overcoming the fears of starting high school (p 44), what the heck “yeet” and other teen lingo means (p 36), and one teen’s experience publishing a poetry book with her sister about growth (p 46).

I could not be prouder of what we’ve accomplished together. Thank you once again to all the grown-up editors at Jingkids for taking a chance on us teens and for giving us this opportunity to grow and to shine.

This article appeared in the jingkids 2021 July-August issue

Countless people dream of becoming a star. What’s more, in the age of social media stardom and seemingly overnight viral fame, the dream of being “discovered” and making it onto the big screen is, for the first time, both infinitely far and just within reach.

For parents, this dream can be terrifying. The film and theater industries are notorious for breeding starving artists, and that’s if you break into the industry. To pursue stardom seems to mean a life of waiting tables while waiting on callbacks from the last audition. So the question stands: What does it really take to be a star?

Qin Hanlei is the embodiment of an aspiring actor’s dream realized. From movies to TV shows and internet dramas, the young actor who used to reenact scenes from Liu DeHua movies in his bedroom is now bringing his own characters to life on screen.

Some of the many films and shows Qin has acted in include《非正式爱情 Informal Love》，《爱情狂想曲》，《三十那年 Thirty Years Ago》，《假装不正经》，《民警的诺言》 ，《爱爱囧事 Love Story》，《雨城故事 To Rain City With Love》，《青春期1、2、3 The Age of Puberty 1,2,3 》(which got over 20 billion views)、《上位》、《女人公敌 Women’s Enemy》.

But the path to stardom never comes without its challenges. Qin says his mother cried when he told her he wanted to be an actor. She worried for him, and not without reason. But Qin wasn’t going to give up. With the unwavering support and encouragement of his father, Qin began taking acting classes and soon graduated from 中国传媒大学 (Communication University of China) and began his acting career. Today, he’s starred in dozens of films and TV shows, and his mother secretly watches all his performances.

Now, however, Qin has a young daughter of his own. I asked him if he’d support her if she one day decided to follow his path and also pursue a career in acting.

Much to my surprise, however, the answer was a resounding “no.” Qin says he’s seen firsthand how harsh the industry can be, and he’s not wrong.

In China, many people still regard acting as a career path chosen by those who don’t do well in school, and everyone knows how difficult the job market can be. Qin says the hardest thing about the acting industry is its 内眷 Nèijuàn, directly translated to “inside-turning.” Neijuan refers to the endless cycle in which, no matter how hard you work, there will always be people working harder, often without sleep or food, forcing you to also push yourself past the limit just for the slimmest possibility of an advantage. Qin and his colleagues say acting is an industry where it feels like there are more actors than viewers, with few available roles and a seemingly endless ocean of people wanting to make it.

Furthermore, acting is considered 青春饭, qīngchūnfàn, a phrase that literally translates to “youth food.” But Qin believes that acting isn’t necessarily a career that starts and ends in your youth. When you’re young, there are roles for young people. When you’re old, there will be roles for old people. Simply put, if you’re good enough, you can act your whole life. Having said that, Qin adds that aspiring actors should focus on studying and have something to fall back on in case acting doesn’t work out.

It’s important to acknowledge the difficulties that come with pursuing acting. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Qin has these tips for aspiring actors to help them do just that.

Passion, passion, passion

Qin’s number one key to success is passion. In a career as difficult as acting, it’s critical that aspirants are willing to push through any hardships along the way. Qin says there were many times in his career that he’d go hungry, but every time he chose to stay in the game, explaining “Acting was like a child to me. I just couldn’t give it up.”

Looking back, Qin realizes he truly loves acting. No matter how grim things look, he says, if you stick it out and truly love what you are doing, you’ll eventually start landing roles and realizing how much you’ve learned.

Patience

There’s a saying among those in the profession that actors spend most of their lives waiting. From waiting for auditions to callbacks to facing rejections, aspiring actors must have the patience and faith to wait and, perhaps more importantly, persevere. Even as a successful actor, Qin says he still spends half the day waiting on set for some big star to finish shooting before he even steps on stage.

Have an open mind towards self-improvement

Like any other career path, Qin says you must always be willing to learn more. The worst thing an aspiring actor can do is become lazy and adapt a mindset of how you “should” perform. Qin urges young actors to watch other performances and always push themselves to improve.

Qin tells me of a time when he was denied a role before he even auditioned. The reason? Not because he wasn’t good enough, but because he didn’t “look” the part. This is the sad truth about the industry. You can have all the patience and passion in the world and still be rejected for things beyond your control.

But Qin says that blow inspired him to push himself to learn more. He says he woke up at 6am every day and read the book《演员的自我修养》more than 20 times. Qin says he knew he may not be as experienced or as good looking as some people in the audition room, but his ability to learn and his constant thirst for knowledge gave him confidence. He took that confidence to the audition room, using it to land roles.

Behind the shiny facade of fame, acting is no walk in the park. Many spend their entire lives waiting to be discovered. But it’s not impossible. Qin is living proof that it can be done. And once you have these three things, you’re already halfway to success.

KEEP READING: What the Tutoring Ban Really Means for Kids, Parents, and Educators

Photo credits: Qin Hanlei 

Date nights are hard enough for couples with kids. Add a pandemic and they’re nearly impossible. After six months of being stuck at home with the kids, my parents couldn’t wait for school to reopen so they can go on a real date, just the two of them, so I was thrilled to introduce them to the hottest new restaurant in Shunyi.

Beijing isn’t known for its waterfront dining experiences, so imagine my parents’ surprise when they entered the former Fella’s across from the Western Academy of Beijing (WAB) and discovered an open-air dining area overlooking a lake. With its white walls, woven lounge chairs, and tropical plants, this new Hulu by TRB felt like the perfect spot for a staycation date, day or night.

Giggle filled date nights are the best

When indoor dining struggled during the lockdown, Hulu first took over the Fella’s kitchen to fill the demand for takeout in the Shunyi area. But business was so good they decided to keep the space, opening a whole new branch of their popular Sanlitun restaurant. This was good news for those seeking the same casual fine dining charm with the added advantage of an al fresco waterfront view.

Just like the welcome drinks at a faraway resort, my parents were greeted with champagne flutes and fruity liquid sunsets – perfect for date night selfies. The appetizers, tiny avocado stuffed tomatoes (RMB 42) and Iberico ham croquettes (RMB 42), are sparse but flavorful preparation for the bigger courses.

When at Hulu, you must try the sliders: beef (RMB 23), pork (RMB 26), truffle (RMB 30), and spicy (RMB 35)! These miniature burgers are tender explosions of flavor, each one unique and presented with tiny toothpick flags. One bite and you’ll want to order more, if not for the other dishes waiting in the wings.

For instance, the sweet potato fries (RMB 58) paired beautifully with the sliders, served in an ice cream cone shaped container and seasoned with an array of spices. They’re best served hot and crispy. Even my dad had to admit they tasted better than his homemade ones.

Before they could finish enjoying and snapping #foodpics of the fries, two giant plates of food arrived. An array of beef, tomato, roasted walnuts, quail eggs, carrots, and so much more flowered out from the center of the Chef’s Salad (RMB 108), where slices of avocado were intricately arranged in a spiral. The honey mustard dressing comes in mini skillets, but you almost don’t want to pour it for fear of dimming the vibrant colors of the salad.

Following the salad was the main event, the Mixed Meat Platter (RMB 238) with rows and rows of beef tenderloin, chicken leg, pork neck, and sausages.  Roasted corn and tomato gave it a rustic appeal, especially laid out on a wooden chopping board with two mini-skillets of sweet and savory sauces.

There’s also no forgetting the Boston Lobster Salad (RMB 158). Split down the middle and paired with a mango and orange salsa, the dish looked like a painting. Hulu’s lobster was tender and stood perfectly on its own, the fruit bringing out the savory umami flavor, making it taste almost like sashimi.

But of course, a date night meal wouldn’t be complete without desserts. My parents tried the Raspberry Smoothie Bowl (RMB 68) and Warm Chocolate (RMB 58). The chocolate fondant cake paired gorgeously with its vanilla ice cream. The Raspberry Smoothie Bowl stood at nearly 15 centimeters tall, deliciously tart and sweet with a creamy undertone of yogurt, leaving it more resembling ice cream; the perfect cherry on top for an ideal staycation date.

The whole Xu family at Hulu by TRB

My parents were married in Shanghai 17 years ago, and have moved many times between China and the US, but when they talk about their life together, they mainly reminisce about the old days in Shanghai where they met: including long romantic leisurely walks in the French Concession every night after dinner. They especially miss those memories now that we can’t travel far.

According to my mom, the secret to long and happy relations is good food and honest conversations. My dad agrees, but for different reasons: he jokes that the easiest way to get mom in a good mood is to give her something good to eat.

And that he did.

Hulu by TRB
2nd Floor, No. 8, Laiguangying East Road (next to WAB) 来广营东路8号2楼(京西学校)
Ph: 6512 5701

KEEP READING: Giddy Up Cowboy!: 18 Years of Marriage, Four Kids, and One Bullride Later, This Texan Couple Know What It Takes to Make It Work!

Photos: Uni You

This article appeared in the beijingkids 2020 October issue

Would you ever get a tattoo? The idea of puncturing your skin to create intricate designs has been around for thousands of years and ingrained in the traditions of cultures all around the world. But it hasn’t always been as socially acceptable as it is today. In fact, in many cultures, they used to signify gang association and crime.

Today, tattoos are a common sight. It can change the way people view you. It’s often more than an aesthetic choice; it’s a way to pay tribute to the person you were and express who you are now.

We spoke with two parents in Beijing who are both deep in the world of body art as they share their views, advice, and the stories behind their ink.

Tattoo artist Belle Gui and son

Something to Honor a Period of Your Life

My high school, Western Academy of Beijing (WAB), is known as a place that values self-expression. It’s not unusual to see teachers – and even students – proudly displaying their tattoos. But for something so personal and obvious, few of us actually bother to ask questions about them.

English teacher David Jordan didn’t get his first tattoo until his mid-thirties. It’s a traditional Māori tattoo, called a moko, which stretches from his shoulder and down his arm.

“As you can imagine,” he says, “as a foreigner and someone of European descent, that can be a little problematic. Some might even call it cultural appropriation.”

Until you hear the rest of the story.

In 2010, Jordan was living in Christchurch, New Zealand when the city was hit by a massive earthquake. He remembers the aftershocks that kept going and going and the screams of his students as they rushed to get them to safety. “We as a community were completely debilitated,” he tells me.

In the wake of the earthquakes, Jordan attended a major community event where a Kaumātua (Māori spiritual leader) introduced them to the concept of “whānau.” In Māori culture, whanau means family, and the larger community of people who make home, home.

“Whānau looks after whānau,” he tells me. We’re in this together. It was the idea of whānau that helped the city and himself get through the disaster.

That’s when he decided to get a moko, which tells a story of heritage and commitment. He says “It’s an expression of your relationship with your spirit and the people around you, [and your ancestry. It’s knowing who you are, and where you came from].” Jordan knew that if he were to get it done, he’d have to do it right.

He was conscious of Māori traditions and had multiple discussions with Māori teachers and students on how to do it and whether or not it’d be okay for him to get one done. When he did, he chose the traditional way. Unlike regular tattoo parlors, the artist doesn’t sketch the tattoo out. There’s no knowing what the finished piece will look like. The artist listens to your story and inks it directly onto the skin.

His tattoo is a tribute to his family history and the sacrifices they made to allow him to leap into the world. Jordan says it’s “a story of what makes me, me.”

A Form of Beauty and Self Expression

Belle Gui is a Beijing tattoo artist and mom to a beautiful little boy. She’s among the first generation to embrace the novelty since tattooing became socially acceptable in China.

Despite the growing popularity of tattoos, it’s still unusual to see someone display as many as she does, all over her arms and legs, on her neck, and down her back. Gui admits she gets a lot of attention for them, though she likes to think it’s because people also consider them beautiful. She doesn’t mind their curiosity and says it’s normal for people to stare. She’d stare too, if she saw someone else with tattoos like hers. What bothers her is when people quietly judge her out of the corner of their eyes.

Gui got her first tattoo at 18 with her boyfriend. The tattoo in question is a barcode on the nape of her neck with the words “made in China” below it. At the time, she said, it had seemed cool and patriotic. Even though she admitted to considering a cover up tattoo, she does not regret getting it, she just doesn’t consider it as “beautiful” anymore. In the end she kept it, after her boyfriend passed away in an accident, as a way to remember him.

When Gui began her career as a tattoo artist in 2007, her parents were very much against it. But after many explanations and discussions, they are now more supportive. She says that her parents are traditional, but as the years go by, she’s beginning to see more and more older people and parents come in for tattoos. As a form of art and self-expression, she believes tattooing will only become more popular.

Advice to Parents and Young People on Getting Tattoos

With the stigma around tattoos decreasing, more and more young people are getting tattoos themselves. Which sparks the question – at what age is it acceptable to get tattoos? And what would you do if your kid wants them?

Jordan says his son already wants tattoos. Granted, he’s only three and marveling at the tales his father tells him about the koi fish jumping to become a dragon on his father’s leg.

His best advice is to have an honest conversation with your children and listen to why they want the tattoo. It’s okay to disagree, and like anything else, the child will grow up and one day decide for themselves. He’d much rather the child understands his point of view and feels listened to.

His worry isn’t of young people not being mature enough, but the credibility of the artist. If someone is willing to tattoo underaged kids, what other safety steps would they be willing to skip?

According to Jordan, kids don’t get enough credit for their ability to make decisions for themselves. He says the moment a young person is able to think of themselves as their own selves, know what they want to do with their own bodies, and acknowledge the sacrifices they will need to make – such as the pain, time, money, and the possibility of regret – he would consider them ready.

Similarly, Gui says she’ll definitely support her son if he grows up to want tattoos. But only if she gets to give him his first one. After that, she’ll recommend him tattoo artists based on his personal style and preference. She also discourages getting tattoos before 18, but not for the same reasons as Jordan. A  child may not have fully developed their own sense of beauty yet and they should consider all options and learn as much as they can about tattoos first. After all, it’s a lifetime commitment.

KEEP READING: Fun, Dance, Fitness, and Afrobeats: One Teen Tests Out the New Jindafit BANA

Images: Uni You, Unsplash

This article appeared in the beijingkids 2020 October issue

This year has been like no other. Most Beijingers have spent the past seven months stuck in the same house with the same people doing the same things over and over again. It’s like we’re suspended in limbo. But even though we still can’t travel far, there are many great things to do around Beijing to help you reclaim 2020 with your family.

All ages and experience levels are welcome at Le Cool Ice Rink.

Live Your Ice Princess Dreams at Le Cool Ice Rink 国贸溜冰场

Beihai Park has a lot of activities, but boating must be on your list!

Boating in Beihai Park 北海公园

If you’re looking for a more scenic option, Beihai Park is one of Beijing’s oldest and best-preserved imperial gardens and it’s a must-see, especially with the lotuses in full bloom.

For RMB 120 an hour, you can rent a small motor or pedal boat and explore the garden via the water. The boats fit up to six people and give you free rein over the giant lake and the view that comes with it. It’s the perfect spot to take Instagram worthy photos and is surprisingly leisurely, even for families with young children.

Exciting for the kids and relaxing for parents, Beihai is the perfect spot to learn about Beijing, escape from the city life, and maybe even see a couple of ducks.

Address: 1 Wenjin St, Xicheng District 西城区文津街1号

Opening hours: Daily 6.30am-9pm* May be subjected to change due to COVID-19. We suggest going around midday.

Price: RMB 120 per hour +RMB 400-500 deposit. Park admission: RMB 10, RMB 5 for students. Tickets need to be booked at least a day ahead of time.

Phone: 6403 7972

---

Jump your troubles away — as a family.

Reclaim Your Childhood at Latitude 乐图

Also for fans of the vertical life, trampoline parks are a must-go. These popular birthday party destinations are wonderful places to drop the kids off for some fun.

While this activity seems more for the children than parents, it’s just the thing to bring out your inner child. Trampoline parks are stocked full of foam ball pits, climbing structures, sports equipment, and, of course, trampolines. Pull on some anti-slip socks, grab your water bottle, and get ready to jump!

798 always has something new to discover.

Borden Your Horizons at 798 Art District

Love art? 798 is a modern Beijing must-go and a great location for families with older children. Explore what used to be an electronics factory and is now a steampunk art district. You might find pipelines the size of cars, graffiti that reaches three stories high, or long-abandoned industrial plants straight out of a dystopian movie.

Take a stop at one of the many coffee shops, bars, and restaurants. Visit some galleries and support local artists. Take a stroll among the street art and make up stories about all the sculptures. Was that one a monster now frozen in time? Does this one come alive at night to protect our city? Let your imagination run wild.

Feel the freedom of skydiving in a comforting indoor environment.

Indoor Skydiving at Happy Flying Home 飞行家太空体验馆

Ever wanted to go sky diving? (For most people, probably not). Ever want to skydive without hurdling 60 meters per second out of a moving plane?

That you can try right here in Beijing. For two minutes, don a flight suit and experience the thrill of flying in a specially built wind tunnel. While there is a minimum weight limit for some youngsters, indoor skydiving is the perfect family adventure for those who dreamed of soaring through the sky.

Address: Bldg 12, South Sector, Zhongliang Xiangyung Xiaozhen

顺义区中粮祥云小镇南区12号楼

Opening hours: 10am-9pm

Price: RMB 240 per 2-minute session

Phone: 138 1010 4809

After nearly seven months of eating mostly my dad’s home-cooked meals, I was dying to eat out. There are so many food choices in Beijing, so I didn’t expect that the first restaurant I’d walk into would be a Turkish one. I’d never eaten Turkish food before, we were still worried about the pandemic, and my dining companion was my equal parts picky and paranoid 13-year-old sister. When we sat down at Turkish Feast, I got a little bit more worried when I saw no pictures on the menu and a lot of words I didn’t recognize. But, when the food came, all our worries melted away.

First came the appetizer. They call it the mezze plate (RMB 98), but it looked like a painter’s palette with three generous bowls of colorful dips. The familiar hummus, made from chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, and olive oil, was so good that even if I ate nothing else after it, I’d leave a satisfied customer. The spicy mezze, so red you might be afraid to touch it, was mild enough that even someone with my low spice tolerance could enjoy the tomato and pepper mixture. And the Turkish carrot tartare was a surprise. The texture felt more like a salad than a dip, with its shredded carrots folded into a cooling homemade yogurt sauce. Though the mezze plate comes with a basket of warm bread, we soon found ourselves eating it directly out of the bowls with a spoon.

Then came the Pide and Adana kebabs. Pide (RMB 98) is a crispy, deliciously cheesy, elongated version of the pizza, divided into four sections and respectively topped with spinach, beef, cheese, and Kiymali, a kind of ground meat. The beef section was our favorite and my sister tried to steal my slice.

The assorted kebab plate (RMB 98) was the perfect introduction to Turkish meats. Contrary to what the name suggests, Adana kebabs do not come on sticks. Instead, the slices of beef, chicken, and lamb are laid out on a platter. The chicken kebab was so tender you hardly even had to chew it. The two of us wolfed it down, despite our promise to save a bite for our dad when he came to pick us up.

But it was the lamb that blew us away! The Turkish styled lamb (RMB 108) is slow-cooked for five hours before being covered in an array of spices and served with a special Turkish rice called bulgur pilaf. The outside skin is deliciously crisp and salty, pairing excellently with the tender meat and rice. I never appreciated the phrase “the meat came right off the bone” until our server took the lamb leg in one hand, a spoon in the other, and separated tender meat from bone in one smooth stroke.

We were in food heaven.

The food was so good that a regular diner even stopped by our table to say that, as someone who’s lived in Turkey for four years, this was the most authentic Turkish restaurant in Beijing and that he’d been coming here almost every day since he discovered it a couple of weeks ago.

Because that’s what good food does: it connects people. Restaurant manager Muhammet Annayev’s dream to study abroad first led him to Beijing from Turkmenistan, and he then entered the restaurant business with a friend to bring Georgian cuisine to China. After the success of his first restaurant Georgia’s Feast, he decided to branch out and start Turkish Feast to introduce authentic Turkish food to Beijing in a combination of fine dining and family-friendly eating.

The restaurant struggled during what Annayev called the “four horrible months” of the COVID-19. He returned alone to Beijing after the spring break to keep it open while his family remains in Kazakhstan, where they had to celebrate his youngest son’s second birthday without him.

It is because of the sacrifices made by restauranteurs like Annayev and countless dream-seekers like him that we don’t need to leave our homes but can still travel the world, through the diversity of food in our own city.

Thanks to them, we can afford to forget about the pandemic (even if it’s just for a few hours). That’s the power of a good meal. Even my little sister understood that. She said it so well: “For a second I thought everything went back to normal.”

Turkish Feast
115, 1/F, Shang, 20 Xinyuan Xili, Chaoyang District
朝阳区新源西里20号金尚一层115号 (6468 8321)

KEEP READING: Dumplings: Showing Love Through Food

Photos: Uni You

This article appeared in the beijingkids 2020 August issue

Fourteen years ago, I stopped being an only child.

My parents must have misunderstood. When I asked for a sister, I meant a BIG sister, not this… wrinkly little thing they call a baby.

I wanted a big sister because I wanted someone who’d play with me, someone who’d protect me and teach me the ways of life. All a little sister does is make me a big sister. I went from being the center of attention to sharing my life with a mini human I was expected to adore and get along with.

Scarier than that, I was supposed to become the responsible sister and role model. All eyes were on me. And I was only two years old!

As humans, we’re obsessed with categorizing everything. We tend to put people into boxes, whether or not they actually fit. It’s easy to project yourself into certain traits if society expects them of you. What child hasn’t heard adults bragging about their “responsible oldest daughter” or “trouble-making” little ones”?

In Chinese, you’re either a jiejie or a meimei – an older sister or a younger sister. In English, there’s no such difference. You are sisters either way. But in Chinese culture, even twins, born only seconds apart, are often subjected to these expectations. You see them on their parents’ social media posts, referred to as jiejie and meimei – translation: the responsible older one and anything-goes little one.

“When I asked for a sister, I meant a BIG sister, not this…”

Throughout my early childhood, I was the perfect jiejie. My little sister was the reason I would always ask for extra cake and candy during class birthday parties. Not because I was greedy, but because I had to save it for my meimei. Everything I talked about included my sister. When my favorite teacher in second grade told us she was leaving, my immediate response was “oh no, you won’t teach my sister!”

My sister and I were inseparable, we never fought, and all the grownups praised me for being a good big sister.

But after I discovered chapter books, we stopped playing together as much. All I ever wanted to do was read. While I hid from the real world through fiction, my sister seemed to move on beyond me until it felt like I had nothing left to offer her. She even took on the role of the stereotypical responsible “older” sister.

We lost that easy communication and started butting heads. In the blink of an eye, she was all grown up. She stopped blindly following me anywhere and looking at me with that light in her eyes.

On a deeper level, the tension between us has always been over something we had no control over: the stereotypes and expectations based off nothing more than birth order. As soon as we stopped fitting into those boxes, I was no longer a good big sister.

“Throughout my early childhood, I was the perfect jiejie.”

Because when the question of “how can I be a better big sister” comes up, you’re really asking how can you get along with your younger siblings and get them to admire you the same way they did when you were young children. In other words, how can you force your way back into those boxes that say, “good sister”?

But there is more than one right way to be a good big sister.

It’s the reason why so many grown siblings keep telling you it gets better when you’re older. They say you’ll one day be each other’s best friends, but they don’t tell you why.

I think being a good big sister means being a good sister first. And being a good sister isn’t just about being a role model or showing your sister the secrets of life. To be a good sister is to understand that you are equals and can learn from each other. It’s about learning to lean on each other and facing the world together.

None of us will be children forever. It’s taken me a while to understand that we’ll never be able to go back to the way we were before. But that’s okay. My sister may be younger than me, but she is just as capable. She won’t need my help forever. In fact, these days it’s her teaching me internet lingo and how to “meme”.

Since the start of quarantine, we’ve spent a lot more time together playing and laughing, just like we did when we were little kids. We work together in silence for hours and coming up with stories late into the night. Yes, we still fight, but we understand that’s just part of what it means to be sisters.

“I think being a good big sister means being a good sister first.”

If you were to ask me how to be a good big sister, I’d have no answer. I am by far not a perfect jiejie. Sometimes I can be scatterbrained and childish. I don’t have much advice on being a teenager, never mind the secrets to the universe. But none of that matters.

I only have two years before I leave for college. I intend to spend them with my sister, as friends and as equals. And that makes me a pretty darn good jiejie.

KEEP READING: The Impact of Birth Order on Parenting Styles and Children’s Personalities

Images: courtesy of TianTian Xu

My grandparents don’t show affection in the traditional way. They don’t tell us they love us and they aren’t used to hugs. Instead, they say it all through food.

My yeye (grandpa) and nainai (grandma) live about three hours away by train. But we’re all so busy with our lives  that we hardly get to see each other. Every time we visit, nainai fusses over whether or not we’ve eaten and yeye spoils us with snacks, pale pink hawthorn flakes, and mint-flavored throat candy he buys just for us. Some of its gone stale from sitting in the dark for so long, and some of its just… a little weird. We eat it anyways.

But nothing beats the dumplings, made from scratch by the entire family. We eat it to say hello, to say goodbye, and they never let us leave without packing more for the road. Every dumpling says “I love you”.

In Chinese culture, dumplings or jiaozi 饺子 signify reunion. Just like during Chinese New Year, whenever my parents bring us back to our hometown, everyone comes home to eat. We each play our part in the dumpling assembly line, and with each pair of hands the dumpling passes through, we are reminded of all the ways we’re connected.

Yeye starts off early in the day by kneading the dough. The finished dough is passed down to my dad and uncle, who tear them into chunks, smoothing them into little balls to be coated in flour and flattened with the press of the palm. Around and around goes the rolling pin, hands twisting the dough and churning out perfect circles of dumpling skin, slightly thicker in the middle and impossibly round.

Making dumplings at the speed of light

Then it’s time to add the fillings and shape the dumplings. Every family folds them in their own way. My dad’s family is from Shandong. They make it the northern way: a quick pinch to the middle and two thumbs that press the corners together like a golden nugget. My mother’s dumplings are different. She taught me to pleat them the southern way, with a ring of folds decorating the dumplings like a crown. These dumplings are slower to make and stand out from the others with their intricate folds. I learned how to fold both, northern and southern.

But the real test comes when it’s time to put them in hot water.

Will the jiaozi hold? Or will they spill precious fillings? My grandpa slides them from the chopping boards into the boiling water. In the pot, it doesn’t matter what the dumpling skin looks like as long as they don’t fall apart. Just like how we stay together as a family, despite all our differences.

We may live 500 km apart. My sister and I may struggle to understand our grandparents’ local dialect and old-fashioned ways. But when it comes to dumplings, no translation is necessary.

Even after we return to Beijing, we continue to feast on our grandparents’ love. We inherited more than family recipes and cooking skills. Making jiaozi with my family gave us a better understanding of where we came from.

With everything going on in the world, there’s no telling when we’ll be able to visit my grandparents next. But my sister and I have learned enough from them about making dumplings that the next time we see them, we’ll be ready to show our love.

KEEP READING: A Step-By-Step to Homemade Laozao Sweet Fermented Rice

Photos: TianTian Xu, unsplash