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.