In Thanks

I am very easily excited and very easily annoyed. I squeak a lot and I gripe a lot. I especially gripe a lot here. It’s all too easy for me to forget just how hard I worked to get this job and how not only nervous but how super excited I was to cross the Pacific.

But today is Thanksgiving. I’m eating my dinner of mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, and quasi-stuffing made with celery, onions, and mushrooms picked up from the market earlier this week and bread I “baked” this afternoon. Today marks four years (more or less) since I became a vegetarian. Thank you, Annika and Dakota.

Cliché as it is, and to force myself to think positive instead of griping, I’m going to write, in no particular order, about some of what I find myself thankful for these days. Prepare for some sappy sincerity.

Emily’s Thanks
I’m thankful for my room. Cold as it gets, and as uninviting as concrete floors are, it’s really nice to have a place to retreat to—a place where I know I can be myself instead of the American teacher. Plus, my room has a couch, and a desk, and a place for me to cook, so it isn’t only a bedroom. I’d add a bathroom, a better view, and a carpet if I had my way, but as things stand I still feel quite lucky to have the space I do.

I’m thankful for my co-workers—especially Mark. Life here is a challenge, and the four of us might not be the best of friends, but if I’m having a bad day, I can hash it out with Mark, and if I’m confused about what was just said in a faculty meeting, Ma LiJun and YiMing are always willing to help out. Although Ma LiJun hasn’t really opened up much in the four months I’ve known her, I’m getting to know YiMing better, and I’d call Mark a friend.

I’m thankful for the market in Heqing. I hit up this place about once a week, and it’s awesome. Fruits and veggies, fresh tofu and rice noodles, eggs and obscene amounts of ginger and garlic…. You can get almost anything, and almost everything’s cheap. I love walking through the aisles, picking out food, going back to the vendors I’ve become something of a regular with.

I’m thankful for job security and financial security. So yeah, I earn a salary that makes my AmeriCorps stipend look quite hefty, but that money goes far here, and I don’t have to pay rent. I’ll probably have to dig into my American account for my New Year travels, but when it comes to the day-to-day stuff I really just don’t have to worry about anything. Also, barring some kind of disaster, my job’s not going anywhere. There are still a whole lotta people back home (and here in China) who can’t say that.

I’m thankful for Dali. I’ve headed down there about once a month since arriving in Heqing, and it’s always a breath of fresh air. Western food, shops, other non-Yunnanese people…. When Mark and I went down over the weekend, we openly acknowledged that we were basically taking a three-hour bus trip just to go to a coffee shop. That kinda café/coffee shoppy vibe that’s so common in so many American spots (even Fountain City in Columbus, GA) just isn’t to be found in Heqing. I swear, when I get back to the States, I’m gonna shuttle between kitchens and coffee shops for like a month. If you don’t know where I am, just go to the nearest kitchen or coffee shop and that’s where I’ll be. When I switch planes in O’Hare or wherever—Starbucks. Right away. Scoff if you like, but I’m tellin’ you…. In the meantime, Thank God for Dali.

I’m thankful for my computer and the internet. Superficial though a computer might seem, this thing is my lifeline. It connects me to skype and gmail and my blog, the NY Times (and its crossword puzzles) and Minnesota Public Radio. It lets me know what’s happening with all the people and places I care about back home. I’m not trying to be at all funny when I say that I don’t know how people used to do it. I really don’t know how people managed to travel abroad and be away from loved ones before email. Skype is an awesome bonus, and I love it, but email’s pretty much a non-negotiable. Beyond the net, this is the place where I have all of my pictures, music, and writing. Not to mention my kids’ grades.

Speaking of my kids, I’m thankful for them. That’s not to say they don’t drive me absolutely nuts (see previous post), but ultimately, they’re my reason for being here. They’re the ones who are changing my worldview and keeping me humble. Often, I feel most energized in the classroom. Of course, often, I feel most exhausted in the classroom too, but so it goes.

This getting super sappy now, but I gotta write it, so bear with me. I’m thankful to be an American. Yes, start up the patriotic music and wave those flags, but it’s true. I suppose it would be much more accurate to say that I’m thankful to be a middle class, college-educated American. Being here has hammered in for me in a way that nothing else in my life has just how lucky I am. Rural China is very different even from Beijing and other major Chinese cities. There are so, so many things that aren’t part of my existance here that I took completely for granted back home. Here are just a few. Last year, my housemates and I kept the heat around 62°F and thought we were roughing it. This year, there is no indoor heating. I’ll have a space heater for my room, but in the classroom, if it’s freezing outside, it’s gonna be freezing inside. (If you think I’m exaggerating, you might be interested to know that the two long walls of my rectangular room are all windows.) I’ve already talked about the bathroom situation. Also, diversity. America definitely has its race/religion/sexuality/class issues, but at least they’re, in many cases, acknowledged. Here, people are unabashedly ignorant of other kinds of folks. I’ve written before that it’s impossible for me, as a Caucasian women, to be anonymous. That was even true in parts of Beijing, although of course to a lesser degree than it's true here. While there are certainly places in the States where diversity doesn’t happen, it’s mostly a part of life. Now, I know the US has its downsides, and I’m not trying to sugarcoat those, but overall it’s a darn good place to live compared to much of the rest of the world. I knew that before. I really know it now.

I’m thankful I’m homesick, or, more accurately, I’m thankful that I have so much to miss—that my life in the States is so full of people and places and things that I love and don’t like being separated from. I have some amazing family and friends and I’ve lived in some wonderful places. When I start feeling too sorry for myself, I think about the many, many refugees in the Twin Cities and how they might never be able to return to the familiar homes and cultures they’ve left, and how, even if it were possible, they might not want to.

Along the same lines, I’m so thankful for everyone’s support. The emails I’ve gotten and the skype/gmail chats I’m had are what keep me smiling during my roughest times.

Finally, I’m thankful for you. Yes, you, whoever you are, whether you know me or not. As I’ve said, I get lonely here, and my blog is one of my best ways of connecting with people outside rural China. It means so much to me that people read it and come along with me for this crazy ride.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

"Who Needs a Master Key When You Have a Good Snap Kick?" and Other Stories

Here is what I’m wearing right now:

Sweatpants, a T-shirt, a knock-off North Face fleece, heavy socks, excellently absurd slippers with blue cows on them, a relatively thick hat, and freshly-knit wrist warmers (made with my first ever bought-in-China yarn).

Did I mention that living in a concrete box can get kinda cold?

We’ve come to the point in the year where, outside, sunny weather quite often means pleasant conditions and cloudy weather quite often means misery. Unfortunately, even with the curtains open, not much warmth trickles indoors. Hence my evening attire being what it is. Don’t worry; there are still layers to be added, but having been Minnesota-trained for the last five winters, I know better than to throw them all on at once the moment it gets chilly. I haven’t turned on my space heater yet (I’m aiming for post-Thanksgiving), and I have fleece PJs awaiting me.

So it’s been a good long while since my last post, mostly because my weekends have been busier than usual, and weekends are usually when I get my blogging in. But this weekend is apparently five days long and will be followed by a marathon nine days of class. Excited I am not, because we found out about our vacation a grand hour before it started, and hence there wasn’t exactly time to plan for travel. We’re probably heading to Dali for a couple days. Most of the other places of note within three hours of us are too chilly ‘til the spring, and we don’t fancy a long trip to somewhere like Kunming, because we had two ten hour bus trips last weekend (more on that in a moment). I shudder to think of how I will feel on Friday December 3^rd, after going from the night before Thanksgiving (weeks always begin with the evening class) without a day off. But what can you do?

Anyway, here are some stories of good, bad, and just plain random times in rural Yunnan.

Gate Crashers

One Saturday morning, Hallie and Arianne thought it’d be nice to ride their bikes up to the spring near our school and hang out. Mark and I, being only twenty or so minutes away, walked over to meet them. Upon arrival, Mark and I looked around for our American friends and were instead greeted by a chorus of “Good Morning, Ms. Emily!” from a gaggle of girls.

“Are those mine or yours?” I asked Mark, puzzled. He didn’t know whose students they were either, and as we drew closer it turned out the answer was neither. These were eighth graders from the area’s top middle school, and they knew who we were because they had already thrust birth

day cake and lollipops onto Hallie and Arianne. Before we had time to utter more than a “Oh, you don’t have to give us cake!” the two of us received the same treats.

The next hour or so was mostly consumed by slightly successful attempted conversation with the girls, followed by a hugely successful silly string fight (during which Arianne was pretty well walloped), followed by the washing of hair, in the spring, to remove said silly string.

Reunion

Last weekend, the reason we had two 10-hour bus trips in three days was because of this year’s first Professional Development Conference. All fifty-whatever CEI fellows congregated for about a day and a half of discussions and trainings aimed to help us work better in and out of the classroom. Since all but three of the CEI schools are in Lincang, rather than Heqing, we Heqingers got to/had to make the trek back down. That part wasn’t so bad. We got two mini van-sized cars to take us all and spent most of the time chatting and sleeping and occasionally playing word games. The conference itself was more useful than I thought it would be. There was some annoying bureaucracy involved, as always, but some of the discussions about class planning and classroom management and integration into school life were genuinely helpful.

More importantly, it was awesome to connect with everyone again after almost three months apart. Our situations are alike in that we’re all dealing with challenged populations, and the American fellows all have some sort of language barrier, but of course every school and every team of fellows is different, and the casual chats/rants about individual schools were great. I was also able to start probing into people’s plans for our month off in January and might—fingers crossed—be putting some things into motion. Details to come when I’ve got ‘em.

On the somber side, being with everyone really hammered in for me how much I wish I was closer to other folks. I like this place, but the 6-10 hour distance from other places stinks. Case in point: if I weren’t 6-10 hours away from everyone, guess where I’d go visit this weekend?

Who Needs a Master Key When You Have a Good Snap Kick?

This story is actually super old news, but I forgot to write about it and it’s way too good to not share.

Sometime in October, I left my room with a key-shaped lump in my pocket, pulled my door closed, went to the bathroom, and traipsed back up to my room only to find that the lump was, in fact, a wadded up post-it. Oops.

Not really sure what to do, I was lucky to immediately run across the teacher who lives next door to me coming up the stairs. She got the maintenance guy. Prepping my very best “不好意思” (I’m sorry/Oh, I’m so embarrassed) face, I got ready to thank him profusely for walking up here to unlock my door. Thus, I was puzzled when, rather than taking out a master key, or a set of keys, he started examining my (very much closed and locked) window. At this point, I was beginning to suspect that there was, in fact, no master key, and that the only two keys to my room were both inside. How this could possibly be the case made no sense to me, as in the city you can find key copying people on many a street corner, and copies cost 2-3 kuai a piece.

Anyway, at that point another teacher arrived, and Ma LiJun came out to help me translate. Her services were swiftly rendered unnecessary as the other teacher’s foot engaged in the cross-cultural language of kicking—kick

ing out my lock, that is. The maintenance guy then spent an hour replacing and installing a new one. Of course, they had all the parts necessary to replace a whole lock. The next time I went into the city, I got copies made, so I now have my own “master key” in the form of four keys—one to carry around, one spare in my room, and two in Mark and Ma LiJun’s rooms. And I still have an awesome footprint on my door.

My Kids are Crazy!

This is less an anecdote than an ongoing saga, but these last few weeks have been particularly notable behavior-wise. Heqing students are, generally speaking, closer to sane than some of their Lincang-ian counterparts. I have never had a student set a desk or his/her own hair on fire in the classroom, and I’ve never caught a student coming to class drunk. At other CEI schools, this has in fact happened. But the Pengtun kids are, on the whole, the least cooperative of the three Heqing schools, and hence we’ve got our own issues. Mostly, these issues arise in the form of talking—lots and lots of talking. Then there’s cheating—lots and lots of cheating. On their Unit 5 test a week ago, I caught no fewer than ten students talking or cheating. Not fun.

The problem is that these kids are very much used to being hit, and I will neither hit them myself nor send them to be disciplined by teachers who will hit them. Thus, my own discipline system needs to replace the fear of being hit with a wooden stick with the fear (or hope of) something else. I’ve tried to make this work through carrots like free time and candy and games, and metaphorical sticks like holding the class back for ten minutes just before lunch so they’re last in line, giving out extra homework, and making particularly naughty kids stand just outside the classroom in 40°F weather for an hour and attend class through the window. Unfortunately, nothing’s come to work properly just yet, and now some of my least cooperative students have a new trick: crawling out of the window as soon as class ends. Mark’s having a similar issue, so we’re planning on switching off being “window guard” for the other.

Anyway, I’ve talked discipline tips with other CEI fellows and my parents, but if anybody else has tips on how to handle the velociraptors (as one of last year’s fellows so aptly titled them) I would love to know.

Mandatory Fun

“Tonight at five we’ll go out for dinner with all the teachers. Does that work?” The smiling elementary school principal stands before YiMing and me; it only takes one glance for us CEI fellows to know we’re on the same page. We went out with the elementary teachers two weeks ago. It wasn’t as awkward as it might have been, but Tuesday evenings are the first time I have to chill after a very busy 24 hours, and I don’t want to give it up again.

“Oh, please excuse me, but I have a Chinese lesson this afternoon.” I don’t mention the time (3-4), hoping this will suffice as an excuse.

“Oh, then how about six?” Still smiling, the principal overlooks our clearly uncomfortable expressions. It’s YiMing’s turn, and he launches into a short apology/explanation of how busy we both are. No luck. The principal replies with the decent point that we’ll have to take time to cook and eat dinner for ourselves if we don’t go out with her and the other teachers. This is true enough, but what Peng Xiaozhang doesn’t get is that, for me, cooking is stress relief; dinner in Chinese with Chinese elementary school teachers I’ve just met is not so much.

It’s time for YiMing and me to switch to the secret language: English. Looking at my notebook as though checking my class time, I ask YiMing, “Do we really have to go? I’m already having lunch with Mark and our mentor teachers. If it’s important for social reasons, we can, but do you think we need to?”

Not too happily, YiMing says that we probably do need to show up for at least a little while. Mandatory fun. Again. So, wanting this over earlier rather than later, I ‘discover’ that my lesson is actually from 3-4, making a five o’clock dinner date just dandy.

Fast forward to five, and there we are. There’s a table with teachers, but it’s hard to tell, aside from the principal, who works for Pengtun Elementary School and who’s from other places. It was this way last time too, and I’m honestly not sure if I’ve seen any of these folks before. Still, everybody’s friendly, and there’s quickly tea to be had and bowls to be filled. The principal knows that I’m a vegetarian, which alleviates some of the inevitable awkwardness, at least until she holds up a ladleful of chicken bits and says “Don’t be afraid. Eat a little chicken.”

YiMing, forever courteous, jumps to my defense. We both exclaim (very politely and with, on my part, many many smiles) that I’m not afraid of meat. It’s just not my custom to eat it. That covers things until somebody tries to put a fish in my bowl, at which point I must explain that my aversion to meat extends to sea life—or lake life, as the case happens to be. I live in a locavore’s paradise, and I appreciate that a great deal when it comes to produce and tofu, but it doesn’t mean I’m any happier about eating things that used to walk or crawl or swim.

Not to be deterred by dietary restrictions, the teachers continue to serve us. There are little potato sticks, tofu (which did not look like tofu to me--not sure how it was cooked) and green onions, tomato and egg, mushrooms, some veggie I don't recognize but am pretty sure I've had before, and a bunch of unidentifiable meaty things. I get full pretty quickly, and, perhaps because I’m a girl or perhaps because I’m an American, the locals eventually stop dumping things into bowl. YiMing, a skinny, Chinese man, is not so fortunate. Long after the teachers have mostly given up on hoisting more food upon me (trying everything from “You should try this; it’s delicious” to “Oh, you’re going to lose weight”—a lie, by the way, as I’ve gained weight here) they continue to fill YiMing’s bowl to the brim. He eats what he can. What else can he do? This is traditional Chinese hospitality. They mean well, they want us to feel welcome, and if instead of welcome we feel like stressed out oompa loompas that’s just too bad.

Conversation moves well enough. I tune out some of it, following what I can, until the topic inevitably turns to me. Namely, praising me. They compliment my Chinese and my supposed youthful looks, they tell me that my fifth grade students all like me and think I’m beautiful, etc. It’s very kind, but I still haven’t quite worked out the art of responding to such things, as even “thank you” can be considered conceited after awhile. Still, I try to reply in kind. Eventually, YiMing opens the escape hatch.

“Oh Emily, your extra class,” he reminds me. There’s no such class, of course, but not for nothing did I take acting classes for half my life. Looking at my watch, I apologize profusely, and, repeatedly but sweetly declining offers of an escort for the three-minute walk home, steal away to the comfort of my room and the lesson planning that awaits me.