Gu Gong - The Forbidden City
My reflection as written for our Asian Culture and Communication course:
The Forbidden City: From the Eyes of an Outsider
My visit to Gu Gong was much like what I had imagined: ancient imperial opulence enshrined in time. The grandeur of Chinese dynastic architecture seemed unchanged for centuries; I gazed upon the handcrafted details at every turn—the work of a million Chinese workers—and wondered how much more majestic the palace must have been when the Emperors of old called it home. But on a humid August afternoon in the 21st century, no heavenly mandate entitled me to walk the path of the Emperors—it just took 60 yuan.
A Chinese friend joined me on the exploration, and to see the City through her eyes was to witness a privileged experience for the everyday citizen. "Only the Emperor could wear that color," she told me, pointing to the vibrant golden rooftops of Gu Gong. As we passed through the main entrance, she encouraged me to touch the worn knobs on the massive gate, as every Chinese person ahead of me had done—something only the Emperor was able to do as well. The imperial walkway, ceremonial rooms, and countless other elements of exclusivity and prestige permeated the massive compound, which now bustles with thousands of camera-wielding tourists who scramble in front of eight by ten openings for a keepsake photograph.
Further inside, a three-year-old freely climbs a statue of a stork I imagine the imperial sculptor intended for another purpose. Flyers forced into the hands of slow-responding tourists outside the gate now litter the grounds inside. A woman in tight faux-leather pants slams her half-frozen water bottle against the aged wall of the City a few times in an attempt to dislodge a few chunks of water for her drinking pleasure. I can imagine 24 Emperors turning in their graves at the desecration I've witnessed, but I remember that the far greater end is the fact that the imperial barrier is now clearly non-existent.
Perhaps the overwhelming gap between ruler and subject manifests itself now, centuries later, in utter disregard. Or perhaps, in true pragmatism, convenience oversteps reverence for empires past. But I find these theories fall short when I catch the look of awe as my new friend gazes from building to building, even on her third visit to Gu Gong. She tells me about each room we encounter, explaining its significance and sharing the stories and legends she learned growing up. From the building where the Emperor made his policies to the residential room where the Imperial court watched opera for leisure, my friend spoke as if she could have been a tour guide based solely on her pre-existing knowledge. Though the Qing dynasty had long passed before she was even born, she shared as if she had been a part of it, and as a Chinese person, in a way, she had.
And as she shares with me the wonders of the Forbidden City, she also continually asks me, "What do you think?" If I did not verbalize my own sense of awe at a particular sight, she would ask for my thoughts. Gu Gong is not just a historical imperial palace once forbidden to non-royals, but it was and is a symbol of China's glory. Now prefaced with the mighty Tian an men gate of the PRC, adorned with the same imperial roofing, the City itself stands for much more than a centuries-old empire, but for a strong and existing empire today—one calling for similar awe and respect.
My Chinese friend asks me as an American what I think of what I see, and I tell her with a smile that what I see is beautiful.
