Junior class, #85, is a raucous crowd of 35 students. Half boys, half girls. Clad in Yali's red, white and blue, athletic-like school uniforms. This number varies between 27-35 students, depending on the day, which boys decide to skip class to play basketball, which students wander in 5-10 minutes late and which students leave the the other foreign teacher's oral English class to join mine.
The latter statement is by no means a way of saying that I am a good English teacher. Class #85, like all classes, has approximately 60-65 students, but since they are an "advanced" class (meaning the students in that class tested higher on their Chinese, Math and Science admissions tests...not English) they are afforded the opportunity to take oral English classes in a smaller setting.
The class is divided up. 35 students go to my section, 35 go to another foreign teacher's section, twice a week. Some days, students decide that they want to switch teachers. They have left the other foreign teacher's class because she is, in their words, "too mean", "gets too angry" or "is ugly". I noticed this population spurt one day when my class had a several unfamiliar faces in it.
Adjective-diversity aside, with the lack of oversight and a communication barrier, there is really no way of preventing this floundering in and out of the classroom. Threats of telling their head teacher only work so much. Sure, you can give them a bad grade, but since grades are basically meaningless (everything revolves around the tests they take after the end of the Junior 3 and Senior 3 years) that does little good. I am not even sure if the students, though it has been explained to them numerous times, understand the difference between and "A" and an "F", except that one is "hao" (good) and one is "bu hao" (not good).
This class exemplifies everything that is wrong with the Chinese education system. While that blatant charge is very subjective, I can tell you that there are some students that can speak better English, but because their test scores in Math, Chinese and Science were lower than their classmates on their admissions test, they do not go to the advanced class. They stay in their classes for three years, until the next admissions test, at which point, if they test well enough, they can continue at Yali. Otherwise, it is back to the school shopping block. Are you confused yet?
Back to class #85. Who could suspect that with names such as "Freeze", "Mirage", "God", "Answer", and "Fred-Almighty", there would be any sort of discipline problems with these students? The fact is, Chinese students see oral English classes as a time to goof off. Who can blame them? With their schedule, I would want to clown around with my friends too.
Last Thursday though, freshly annointed into a new semester of teaching, Class #85 had me sulking in anger. With chairs arranged in a "speed dating" style, to encourage conversing for an activity I had planned, the students immediately went to work in dismantling the set-up to group the chairs together with their friends. Big deal, right? Imagine, if this happened 7 times in one week. In America, most students would realize that, "oh, there is a pattern to this set-up, we probably should not rearrange the chairs." Not here.
A group of 14 year-old girls, habitually late, saunter in with a West Beverly High attitude and fake Adidas and Nike bags slung over their shoulders (on another note: Trademark infringement is the lay of the land in China, which is great if you like a good, cheap knock-off, but awful if you actually care about having your intellectual property protected). The girls gab and laugh, completely unaware to the feelings of the teacher at the front of the class, eyes closed and breathing deeply and just waiting for what could be minutes for the vocal level to die down. This happens in every class. 18 times a week. Numerous times over the 45 minute stretch of each.
The common-sense standards of Chinese people are light-years away (not in an evolutionary-advanced, "I am an arrogant American" sort of way), but in a way that says their concept of the matter is just different. Different rules apply here. Coupled with the spacial relationships that the Chinese have with their environment, it can be a recipe for high blood pressure for any teacher, any public bus passenger and any escalator rider.
Which brings me to the title of this essay. Contortionist's will. It pays to be flexible in China. Buses run late, early, sometimes not at all and always at the whim of the driver. A strange contradiction when they could be fresh off the assembly line with heating, AC and flat screen tvs.
Schedules change, with great notice, little notice or no notice. Usually I get word through the form of a text from my liaison. More often, through my own investigating with the students. Founding out when finals, holidays, summer vacation begins, is like trying to predict an earthquake. Ball-parked, is the best you can hope for. My Chinese colleagues, do not flinch at this. I still, STILL have trouble not believing that the school cannot know when the last day of classes will be. I hate that I have that feeling.
The trouble my students cause me in class has lead me to drop expletives and slam down books. I've walked out, kicked students out, made them do push-ups and lost my temper. I get better at handling it each day. It pays to laugh, it pays to not take it seriously, it pays to keep them occupied, it pays to know Chinese (which at the very least will get you a welcome round of applause). It DEFINITELY pays to be prepared.
For now, even though my internal monologue is a constant barrage of, "are you kidding me?", "how can you not understand what I am trying to tell you?", I passively wait, close my eyes and wait until one of the better students can encourage the others to be quiet.
In high school, I am fairly certain that I was partially to blame for two Spanish teachers leaving their jobs. My angst caused that, and I think it is all coming back to haunt me now. Proof that karma does exist.
I often wonder how this new found tolerance will affect me in America. Will I be ambivalent to minor distractions? Will other peoples inability to cope with them set me off or anger me? Yes, it will, it already has, as I have observed in my travel encounters with other Westerner's. I mean, when I spend my time slurping down street-fried noodles with chopsticks while walking into on-coming traffic, how can I be upset when the waiter brings me the wrong dish.
It's just China. It has no explanation. It is a land of contradictions and confusion. My words cannot do it justice. There are highs, that are really high, and the lows that are really low.
It's all like Class #85. Confused, comical, chaotic, splendid, tiresome, delightful. The only thing it never is, is boring.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
On the Bus....
Changsha city bus # 135 churns away from the school's entrance at a battleship-like angle, crossing four lanes of traffic to get to the other side, and dodging cars and pedestrians that cram the street at the bottom of the school as class gets out each day.
The bus is somewhat retro. Aluminum and wood floors, stained with the stamping of thousands of feet, not to mention what else. The driver puffs on a cigarette and wheels around as I peer out one of the aisle windows.
We are headed to the train station, a transit point on this route, where I will switch to another bus to take me into downtown Changsha. The sun has set and the street is full of life. Today is the Lantern Festival, the last day of Chinese New Year. I am headed to Martyr's Park to watch fireworks and take part in the festivities.
The bus continues, it's herky-jerky movements, answer my question as to why so many Chinese have motion sickness. After a month away from the bus system, I myself, for the first time, am feeling queezy. A mixture of the driving and the impurities I am inhaling as we coast down the road.
Headlights illuminate the smog that drifts from the street floor up to the sky. There are no stars visible, as is the case on most nights in Changsha. The city is plagued with development and chaos, and is blanketed with a thermal gray of toxin. A month away has also exposed me to much needed blue sky and fresher air, and my body is slowly readjusting to the pollution.
There is nothing special about this ride. The continual stare. A woman in front of me shouts at a man behind her, who I deduce to be her boyfriend or friend, in a manner that is not anger, but much louder than you think would be necessary for two people only inches apart. Her child gets on the bus and sits on her lap. He stares at me. I make a goofy face back at him which elicits no response. This is what I do most of the time I get a stare from a child. The occasional peek-a-boo may work, but mostly they just smile back or if they are too small, look away nervously and then resume their staring moments later. You learn to let it all go. When an adult stares, I usually try to strike up a conversation, or at least say "Ni Hao" (hello), which catches them so off guard that they look away. It is all very comical to me now.
I trade buses and head to the park. It is a sea of people. I check my backpack numerous times to make sure everything is accounted for and all the zippers zipped before heading in. Bright, electronic lanterns are strewn over the main promenade of the park, an homage, albeit a less exotic one, to yesteryear. A time in which the lanterns were of paper, wood and candle.
Like most crowds in China, there is not much you can do but just go with the flow. Here in this one park, in this one city that no one outside China knows, on this one day in China, there has to be more people than crowd Times Square on any-given New Year's Eve. This is the scene in cities and towns all over China. Most people just really do not fathom this. There is so many people here.
The lakes of the park are alive with rowboats, and small ferry rides, paddle boats and people lighting paper lanterns and setting them to fly into the sky. There is no structure to the fireworking of this holiday, and explosions come from all angels and from all around. People are celebrating. Chinese style.
I spend about 45 minutes walking around the park before I get a craving for some noodles from a local Muslim restaurant. The noodles are thick and spicy and Changsha does not have much cuisine from other provinces. I indulge and buy two bowls to go, not knowing when I will be in the neighborhood again.
Then it is back on the bus, to continue the (at least) 45 minute commute back to our school. This time, the ride takes much longer. The bus is packed and traffic is bad. I stand up, backpack on, two bags of hot noodles in my hand and hold on to one of the handles. Eventually, I find a seat, sit down and resume the staring contest with another child.
Just another typical day on a bus, nothing special. These trips always make me feel like I am learning so much, just an observer, just watching the world take it's course.
The bus is somewhat retro. Aluminum and wood floors, stained with the stamping of thousands of feet, not to mention what else. The driver puffs on a cigarette and wheels around as I peer out one of the aisle windows.
We are headed to the train station, a transit point on this route, where I will switch to another bus to take me into downtown Changsha. The sun has set and the street is full of life. Today is the Lantern Festival, the last day of Chinese New Year. I am headed to Martyr's Park to watch fireworks and take part in the festivities.
The bus continues, it's herky-jerky movements, answer my question as to why so many Chinese have motion sickness. After a month away from the bus system, I myself, for the first time, am feeling queezy. A mixture of the driving and the impurities I am inhaling as we coast down the road.
Headlights illuminate the smog that drifts from the street floor up to the sky. There are no stars visible, as is the case on most nights in Changsha. The city is plagued with development and chaos, and is blanketed with a thermal gray of toxin. A month away has also exposed me to much needed blue sky and fresher air, and my body is slowly readjusting to the pollution.
There is nothing special about this ride. The continual stare. A woman in front of me shouts at a man behind her, who I deduce to be her boyfriend or friend, in a manner that is not anger, but much louder than you think would be necessary for two people only inches apart. Her child gets on the bus and sits on her lap. He stares at me. I make a goofy face back at him which elicits no response. This is what I do most of the time I get a stare from a child. The occasional peek-a-boo may work, but mostly they just smile back or if they are too small, look away nervously and then resume their staring moments later. You learn to let it all go. When an adult stares, I usually try to strike up a conversation, or at least say "Ni Hao" (hello), which catches them so off guard that they look away. It is all very comical to me now.
I trade buses and head to the park. It is a sea of people. I check my backpack numerous times to make sure everything is accounted for and all the zippers zipped before heading in. Bright, electronic lanterns are strewn over the main promenade of the park, an homage, albeit a less exotic one, to yesteryear. A time in which the lanterns were of paper, wood and candle.
Like most crowds in China, there is not much you can do but just go with the flow. Here in this one park, in this one city that no one outside China knows, on this one day in China, there has to be more people than crowd Times Square on any-given New Year's Eve. This is the scene in cities and towns all over China. Most people just really do not fathom this. There is so many people here.
The lakes of the park are alive with rowboats, and small ferry rides, paddle boats and people lighting paper lanterns and setting them to fly into the sky. There is no structure to the fireworking of this holiday, and explosions come from all angels and from all around. People are celebrating. Chinese style.
I spend about 45 minutes walking around the park before I get a craving for some noodles from a local Muslim restaurant. The noodles are thick and spicy and Changsha does not have much cuisine from other provinces. I indulge and buy two bowls to go, not knowing when I will be in the neighborhood again.
Then it is back on the bus, to continue the (at least) 45 minute commute back to our school. This time, the ride takes much longer. The bus is packed and traffic is bad. I stand up, backpack on, two bags of hot noodles in my hand and hold on to one of the handles. Eventually, I find a seat, sit down and resume the staring contest with another child.
Just another typical day on a bus, nothing special. These trips always make me feel like I am learning so much, just an observer, just watching the world take it's course.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Crossing Over-Old Post
I am now in my third country of my trip. After 3 and a half days in Bangkok and 11 days in Cambodia, I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam yesterday morning. Most people know HCMC as Saigon, and the name itself brings to mind allusions and images of the Vietnam War, or as it is known her, the American War.
What I have found, thus far, on this enriching historic and educational journey, is the far reaching impact and implications of America's history. How our imperialistic tendencies and corporate greed have shaped economic and foreign policy since WWII.
This is not to say, that America is the only country with blood on their hands, but I can truthfully say, that I had NO IDEA, the ground-level effects of America on the rest of the world. Sure, we all see McDonalds and Wal Mart in foreign countries, but there is such a deeper and more profound impact that our nation has had on shaping the destiny of the world.
What I have found, thus far, on this enriching historic and educational journey, is the far reaching impact and implications of America's history. How our imperialistic tendencies and corporate greed have shaped economic and foreign policy since WWII.
This is not to say, that America is the only country with blood on their hands, but I can truthfully say, that I had NO IDEA, the ground-level effects of America on the rest of the world. Sure, we all see McDonalds and Wal Mart in foreign countries, but there is such a deeper and more profound impact that our nation has had on shaping the destiny of the world.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Cambodia
Cambodia will always have a special place in my heart. No more of a cliche statement could be made apart from that. Cambodia to me is a place of rich history, pain, enchantment, mysticism, corruption and smiles.
I have been here for 9 days, and spent the majority of that time in Phnom Penh. A city I did not intend to stay in for that long, but one in which I found a significant part I could play, albeit a short one, by helping the children of the People Improvement Organization in the Stoeng Mean Chey garbage dump.
PIO helps over 200 students in Phnom Penh. All are poor, some are orphaned. In the class I am volunteering with, their ages range from 10-18. They are boys and girls that do not look their age. Poor nutrition has stunted their growth, like many Cambodian children, to the point where one 15 year old boy in my class could easily pass for 8.
They run up to me the moment I step out of the tuk tuk. They take me by the hand. They hug me when I leave. Perhaps they are so starved for some sort of love, some fatherly figure, that they clutch to whatever foreigner comes into their midst.
They track barefoot over broken glass, sheep dung, hypodermic needles and viles of blood. They do this, all the while smiling and playing, making make-shift kites out of notebook paper and yarn, dancing about amongst garbage pickers and truck drivers.
Here, they are getting a shot at a better future. One that their country and their government cannot provide. They face exploitation, from yes, foreign hands, and I find the tourists that drive by their school to photograph their faces, unknowingly using them as if they are a circus side-show.
Something has happened to me, even before I got to this school. Something about the people of Cambodia and their ways. Something about the immense suffering they have witnessed and that has shaped a dim future. Working with these students only furthers my belief, that even though it is idealistic and hopeful, I believe I can change the world. Even though I know it cannot be done by one person, namely someone like me, whose name does not end in Jolie or Pitt, or whose company does not do 60 billion in sales, I still feel the same way. That I can make that difference. That I can lead them to something better.
Cambodia is reaffirmed that this is the work I was meant to do. Maybe it is because of my upbringing that I can easily relate to these children, maybe that is the reason I am skeptical of the rich and the privileged, namely Westerners who exploit and complain at the drop of the hat. Maybe it is just my simple belief that one person can make a difference, and that there is no better time to start than now.
I have been here for 9 days, and spent the majority of that time in Phnom Penh. A city I did not intend to stay in for that long, but one in which I found a significant part I could play, albeit a short one, by helping the children of the People Improvement Organization in the Stoeng Mean Chey garbage dump.
PIO helps over 200 students in Phnom Penh. All are poor, some are orphaned. In the class I am volunteering with, their ages range from 10-18. They are boys and girls that do not look their age. Poor nutrition has stunted their growth, like many Cambodian children, to the point where one 15 year old boy in my class could easily pass for 8.
They run up to me the moment I step out of the tuk tuk. They take me by the hand. They hug me when I leave. Perhaps they are so starved for some sort of love, some fatherly figure, that they clutch to whatever foreigner comes into their midst.
They track barefoot over broken glass, sheep dung, hypodermic needles and viles of blood. They do this, all the while smiling and playing, making make-shift kites out of notebook paper and yarn, dancing about amongst garbage pickers and truck drivers.
Here, they are getting a shot at a better future. One that their country and their government cannot provide. They face exploitation, from yes, foreign hands, and I find the tourists that drive by their school to photograph their faces, unknowingly using them as if they are a circus side-show.
Something has happened to me, even before I got to this school. Something about the people of Cambodia and their ways. Something about the immense suffering they have witnessed and that has shaped a dim future. Working with these students only furthers my belief, that even though it is idealistic and hopeful, I believe I can change the world. Even though I know it cannot be done by one person, namely someone like me, whose name does not end in Jolie or Pitt, or whose company does not do 60 billion in sales, I still feel the same way. That I can make that difference. That I can lead them to something better.
Cambodia is reaffirmed that this is the work I was meant to do. Maybe it is because of my upbringing that I can easily relate to these children, maybe that is the reason I am skeptical of the rich and the privileged, namely Westerners who exploit and complain at the drop of the hat. Maybe it is just my simple belief that one person can make a difference, and that there is no better time to start than now.
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