It's funny how, when you're a teacher, you can spend so very long writing a lesson plan, or filling in a behavior chart, or painstakingly cutting photocopied dollar bills from the confines of their white borders, and have absolutely no idea if your work will pay off. As it stands, I've planned my classes for the next day and a half and have until the end of the week sketched. This is pretty darn good; I'm a rather last-minute planner, for the most part, and as a less than detail-oriented individual, going from rough sketch to fleshed-out plan (with points A, B, C, etc) always requires effort. Luckily, on Monday afternoons we have faculty meetings, a multi-tasker's paradise, during which I half-heartedly listen and whole heartedly scribble away all the intricacies behind such phrases as "Come to visit Bridge Street," and "Take a walk through the park." Our current unit is on, you guessed it, directions and neighborhoods. It should perhaps be pointed out that I still struggle with directions in Chinese, and French, and every other foreign language I've taken. Those pesky little prepositions. And imperative sentences. Woof. I'm doing my best to keep things simple to remember and prod my students along without driving them, or myself, to frustration.
I feel in some ways as though I'm back in college-- never done with work, and always concerned, to some degree, with whether or not I'm doing things right. I guess that's common to many jobs. It's not the best feeling, and having a group of 46 students to critique me two or three times a day can be a bit wearing. Last year was hardly a no pressure zone, but I felt like my job ended when I walked in my front door after a day's work; things were compartmentalized, and although I thought and talked about my students a ton (as I'm sure both my former housemates would attest), work was a part of a well (or at least better)-rounded life. In Pengtun, work is life. In college, work was life too, but work was generally more fun. I miss it, and I'm really excited to start grad school, if I can get in, in Fall 2012.
My students are rather unpredictable, growing more-so by the day. A lesson plan that might keep them quiet and engaged one morning could lead to utter chaos the same afternoon. My kids all know the phrase "Everybody. Shut. Up. Now!" Oops. At least they don't know that it's any worse than "Everybody quiet!" Nonetheless, I've been trying to supplant it with "Simmer down!" (I figure that whatever phrase they associate with me being loudest and widest-eyed will be the one they try to replicate, and both because I don't want them telling each other to shut up and because I think the notion of rural Chinese kids telling one another to "simmer down" is hilarious, that's my new angle.) I've tried shouting, whispering, kicking kids out, storming out myself, ignoring bad behavior, bringing poorly-behaved students to school administrators, etc. My current rewards system, using the aforementioned fake American money, has been working relatively well for the good kids, but unfortunately isn't curbing rotten behavior. Only hitting seems to do that so far, and as I'm not allowed to implement that, well....
As much as I appreciate the differences from my life in the States, I also appreciate what I can keep the same . Desk, computer, school books, notebook, warm beverage (usually green tea, but I got so much lovely American stuff in my holiday packages that I've been favoring chai and cocoa lately). Often enough, streaming MPR (that's Minnesota Public Radio for you uninitiated folk) or some other music. Lesson planning, yes, but comfy lesson planning.
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
New Year's Travels
Well, it’s been awhile coming, but I’m finally ready to sit down and write about the five and a half weeksish I spent on the road. I could do this in a couple chunks, but instead I’m just gonna post one heck of a long entry. It keeps things simple. Also, I've split pictures from break into four albums: Thailand, Cambodia, post-Cambodia, and Food. All are at http://anamericaninheqing.shutterfly.com. And on facebook too.
Adventures began on the evening of January 15th, with my very first Chinese night bus. I have vague, drowsy memories of the driver and a passenger or two crouched over a panel on the bus floor that opened down to the engine. And as I recall there was dish fluid of some sort involved. Nonetheless, we arrived in Kunming bright and early.
After meeting up with my travel buddies (Emily Cole, Kristen, and Laura—Alex was already in Bangkok), we napped atour hostel for most of the morning to make up for the night’s lack of slumber, then enjoyed an afternoon and evening sitting at Salvador’s (best western food in Kunming). The city was chilly and wet. I found myself wishing I’d brought a scarf and mittens for the trip.
Then we went to Bangkok. Bangkok, where I was sweating in shorts and a tank top. Bangkok, where our guesthouse’s whole neighborhood smelled good. Bangkok, where public transit zooms about, where both the local and the western food are amazing. Thailand wasn’t love at first sight; it was love at first touch of tropical air wafting in through the gap between plane and jet way.
Our first Bangkok stop was a short one. We spent a day getting acquainted with the incredible weather, Thai iced tea (made thus with sweetened condensed milk—highly recommended), street food delicacies of all sorts, public ferry rides, wats, hot showers, and…the fact that we don’t speak Thai.
This became quickly obvious, as we all tried to speak Chinese when ordering food, buying tickets, etc. It was a bit hilarious, and somewhat embarrassing, and also very humbling. None of us would consider ourselves fluent Chinese speakers (heck, I don’t know if I’d call myself proficient), but we’re all so accustomed to trying to make do with what Chinese we do have, circumlocuting left and right and, usually,eventually, getting ourselves understood. In Thailand, we were helpless. The first time we wanted to order iced tea there was nothing to point at (except a Thai-alphabet menu), we didn’t know any numbers, and we couldn’t even say thank you. If some young, English speaking guy hadn’t come to our aid, I don’t think we’d have succeeded in acquiring our tasty treats. But throughout Thailand people were, in almost every interaction, so very helpful and accommodating. Those who spoke English (and there were many, no doubt due in great part to tourism) used it with us, and those who didn’t tried to help us anyway.
The evening after arriving in Bangkok, we took our first Thai night bus down to Krabi and then bought ferry tickets to Ko Lanta. Going into this trip, I expected the island to be my least favorite part. I’m not a huge beach person. But I’d also never been to a tropical island.
And what an island it was. Bungalows a minute from the ocean, beachside meals, water in colors I didn’t know existed outside of postcards and movies, tropical fruit everywhere, caving, snorkeling, mo-peding…. Ko Lanta is certainly a resort town, and hence there were a heck of a lot of European vacationers about (we all went into blonde haired/blue eyed shock) and a lot of expensive things.It could hardly be called the most traditionally Thai part of our trip. Still, it was an exquisite few days.
As we came to Lanta (by ferry), so we left, boating first to Ko Phi Phi and then to
Phuket. Phuket has a party town and an old town, and we opted for the latter. We stayed in a creepy old hotel (home to Phuket’s first elevator) and spent a night and a two days wandering the streets, appreciating the strange but enjoyable mix of Chinese, Thai, and European influences.
After another night bus, a quick stop at the Bangkok bus terminal, and a couple hours on yet another bus (a second class one rather than the first class one we’d been sold tickets for—oops), we arrived in Kanchanaburi, a river town that was
once the site of a WWII POW camp and now plays host to lots of backpackers. We slept in raft rooms on the river Kwai, visited a war museum moving in its simplicity, rode bikes about town, and bused out to a park with seven tiers of waterfalls and monkeys.
Laura, Kris, and I headed back to Bangkok a day earlier than Alex and Em. We stayed by Khao San road rather than in the less touristy area where we’d slept our first night. It was nice for the experience, and Khao San road is certainly a good place to shop, but I much prefer the quieter Ari neighborhood. We went to the Great Palace—which contained more gold than I think I’ve ever seen in one place—and met up with Alex and Em for one last night in Bangkok before Kris and I split off for Cambodia.
Going overland to Cambodia is complicated and full of potential scams, which I spent a good long time researching. We took the 5:55 AM, quite uncomfortable 3rd class train from Bangkok to the Thai border (ash blew in through the window, and the seats jutted into our backs), rode a tuk tuk to the border itself, walked through, got a visa on arrival, immigrated, took a complementary government bus to the transit station, and got a shared cab to Siem Reap.
Siem Reap, so far as we could tell, was not a particularly exciting place. It was incredibly touristy, of course, and hence had a lot of western and Cambodian food options, and a few fun markets, but the attraction of the town was definitely the temples. There are lots and lots of temples to see, Angkor Wat being the most famous, and Kristen and I spent two days exploring. As many visitors as there were, most of the sites were not nearly so crowded as American and European tourist spots I’ve visited. So that was nice. 
The temples were big and small, in various states of repair and ruin. I found myself, naturally, utterly amazed by the architectural feats of so long ago. Watching the shifts in religious allegiance was also fascinating. Buddhas hacked out of rock or turned into Hindu holy men with the addition of beards, broken statues of Shiva and Vishnu.
Cambodia also threw me for a loop by using the American dollar more than the Cambodian riel. I hadn’t had greenbacks in my wallet, much less used them, since July. This was made even more confusing by the fact that everything in Cambodia is very cheap in American dollars. Kristen and I decided to splurge in a major way when we bought 5-dollar plates of homemade, and very authentic-tasting, four-cheese gnocchi and tagliatelle with pesto.
The trip back to Bangkok was much simpler than the trip to Cambodia. We went to our original guesthouse in Ari and spent a relaxing night there before Kristen met up with her boyfriend for more beach time and I embarked on my first ever solo travel adventure.
At first, this just meant going across Bangkok, where I dropped my bags at the train station and explored. I walked to Chinatown to check it out, and then I walked swiftly away from Chinatown, because it was a bit too authentic. After wandering for most of the afternoon, I returned to the train station and got on my night train up to Chiang Mai. I happened to be sitting across from an American family living in Beijing and had the longest English face-to-face conversation I’d had with a non-CEIer since leaving the states. Thai sleeper trains, as opposed to Thai third-class trains, are a really nice way to travel—quite comfortable and with actual beds instead of just reclining seats like on the buses.
Chiang Mai was not as hot as down south or Bangkok, but warm and comfortable, with tons of cafes and pedestrian-friendly streets. The combination of my being a solo traveler and
wanting a bit of a break after being on the road for something like three weeks meant taking time to relax. I’ve said many times that having a coffee shop in Heqing would solve half my problems, because there’s nothing quite like that atmosphere (not to mention selection of beverages) to cheer up a mopey/uninspired/unproductive me. I spent a lot of time in Chiang Mai sipping mochas and smoothies and other treats. I also spent a lot of time in cooking school—three days, in fact. I knew I wanted to go for at least a day, but the first was so much fun that I signed up for the second, and the second was so much fun that I signed up for the third. I now feel fairly confident that, given proper ingredients, I can replicate some pretty authentic Thai stuff. I explored a lot of wats and markets as well, and my visit happened to correspond with the annual flower festival, so I saw a parade with rather incredible floral floats.
After a week in Chiang Mai, I night bused back to Bangkok and reunited with Kristen for our last couple days in Thailand. We went to Wat Arun (the Temple of Dawn), Wat Pho (home of the incredible reclining Buddha), Bangkok’s largest outdoor park, and Cinnabon. Yes, there is a Cinnabon in Thailand. Actually, there’s a Cinnabon and a bunch of other ridiculous places at this huge food court in this huge mall that definitely was a bit of cultural overload. I also went to the US Consulate to get pages added to my passport. It was American but not, and I was surrounded by perfectly nice looking folks and by some creepy old guys with their 20-something Thai girlfriends/wives.
Flying out of Bangkok was a sad experience, I must say, excited as I was by the prospect of Hong Kong. And Hong Kong was quite fun (and quite expensive). Mark surprised Kris and me by meeting us at the airport,and he proceeded to be our guide for our three-day stay.
We booked a room at the Chungking Mansions, not realizing until after the fact that, though its reputation has improved dramatically, the place is pretty darn sketch. That would explain the prices. Certainly I wouldn’t want to stay alone, but with Kristen it was fine. Our room was a shoe box but clean and secure, and the mansion itself had some amazing Indian food because many of the residents are Indian and Pakistani.
Hong Kong’s weather left something to be desired. 
I don’t think I would have been that bothered by it coming directly from China, but going from Thailand it was cold. Also wet. Very wet. So much so that when we went to see the Lantau Buddha (which is among the world’s largest seated Buddhas) we saw shapes rising from the mist. Still, we had a lovely time checking out different parks and neighborhoods and getting a sense of where Mark grew up.
Macau is about a one-hour ferry ride from Hong Kong, and Kris and I passed through on our way back into the mainland. While there we met up once more with Emily Cole, who was staying with her aunt, and she toured us around. What a cool city. Macau has a Vegas-like reputation in China, and it’s true that there were casinos, but all I saw was amazing Sino-European architecture and food. We visited a centuries-old church that had burned down, leaving only the stone façade, and a fort, and had Portuguese egg tarts and sandwiches at a café near the center square. All too soon, however, it was time to get on a bus and cross back into China. It was Valentine’s Day. I’d been out of the country for nearly a month.
After a one night stay in Guangzhou and a 26-hour train ride with the lights on and without a sleeper car (not recommended—after finally drifting off I got woken up by a young guy who wanted to know about what I put in my hair to make it curly. ‘Nuff said.) we got back to Kunming.
Laura was already there, and over the following days the rest of the CEI crew trickled in.We indulged in lots of western food, city strolls, and a day of hiking west of the city, before settling back into work with a professional development conference and a plane ride back to Lijiang. Flying over Heqing, I was struck, as always, by just how gorgeous it is. There’s a lot I don’t appreciate about this place yet and a lot that I think I never will, but the straight up beauty is a definite perk.
We’re three weeks into term now, and today marks exactly 8 months since my arrival in Beijing. I’ll be teaching (with a few breaks, I’m sure) until mid-July. I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunities I had during my time off and am working to make this new semester more successful (academically and personally) than the last. So you can expect a return to regular, rural, China-style blogging soon enough.
Monday, January 10, 2011
On Language (again)
Random Canadian traveler in buffet line at the hostel where we stayed in Dali: So if you guys are teaching and living here, do you speak any Chinese?
CEIer in line (I forget who): Yeah, some. We’re not that good though.
Canadian: Do you have to speak it a lot?
CEIer: Some. I mean, we teach in Chinese.
Canadian: Wait, what?
Although I’ve had a lot of language-related stuff in my posts, I haven’t done a truly language-focused post for quite a while. So here’s an update of sorts.
Basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that dropping me (a non-native Mandarin speaker who’s only studied previously in formal contexts and in Beijing) here is not really at all akin to dropping a Chinese person into, say, Columbus, GA. Columbus is in the south, and, as such, there are very thick accent issues to work through. I’m sure that for non-native English speakers, Columbus is a frustrating place to be for some time after arrival. My students, and I would assume students all over China, study California, TV anchor English. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no such thing as a southern drawl, New York nasal vowels, or Boston dropped r’s. For beginning students, such clear English makes sense, but it also means that there’s no proper preparation for authentic situations, interacting with real, accented people. Anyway, Columbus would not be an easy place to have one’s first English interactions, even after years of formal study.
This is much worse. Because, you see, dropping me into the Dali Bai Autonomous Prefecture of Yunnan is not akin to dropping a native Chinese speaker into Columbus, Georgia, but is much closer to dropping a native Chinese speaker into a Latino Immigrant Community in Southern California.
There are three distinct languages at play here, each more incomprehensible to me than the next. First, there’s straight up Mandarin, what I studied in school and during my semester in Beijing. Only, it isn’t straight up Mandarin, because most of the students and staff here don’t speak standard Mandarin. Their tones aren’t the same as what I’ve studied, their vowels are formed differently (sounding almost British), and according to Malijun and Yiming, their grammar isn’t typical either. In a tonal language, having inaccurate tones, well, complicates speaking and comprehension. The lead teacher for my class speaks very local Mandarin, and, hence, we don’t communicate well. My kids’ accents vary, but I often need more standard speakers to translate what a less standard speakers have said.
Mandarin is the language of the classroom and of other official school business, or at least it’s supposed to be. That’s a small mercy, because it means I can sometimes begin to catch the gist of faculty meetings, even with accent issues. That being said, I’m rarely confident enough in my understanding not to check in with Yiming or Malijun for details afterwards. Plus, being the official language of school business doesn't mean it's always the language of school business.
After Mandarin comes the local dialect. It’s related to Mandarin, but if you don’t have a full grasp of Mandarin there’s essentially no way you’d understand. Arianne’s beginning to, but she’s also spent much more time living in China than the rest of us. This is one of the languages I hear out and about around the school and town. When I got here I couldn’t even tell the difference between local (accented) Mandarin and the dialect, but my ear’s improved enough that, most of the time, I can now. Some of the older people here (and, unfortunately, some of my students’ parents) don’t speak Mandarin at all, although some who don’t speak it can still understand because of TV and stuff.
The least comprehensible language, although—let’s be honest—the local dialect is equally confusing, is 白族话 (Bai Zu Hua). This is the language of the Baizu minority that populates most of these parts. There are 56 distinct “minorities” in China, and Yunnan is one of China’s most diverse regions. Considering that I’ve been living in the Bai region for well over five months I feel bad that I don’t know more about these people. I’ve now been witness to a Baizu wedding, and of course I know what married Baizu women wear, because it’s the dress I see all over the town. However, I have yet to really learn about their history, how they came to be here, and how their modern-day culture differs from that of the traditional Han culture. I do know that their language is Tibetan-Myanmese in origin and I don’t understand a word of it.
At this point I’m fairly confident in my ability to communicate with standard Mandarin speakers. I can’t discuss philosophy or politics or anything technical, but when it comes to the every day I can generally hold conversations as long as my conversation partners are patient and will help me to understand concepts. I’m not at the point that I can understand TV though, because there’s no way to stop the speakers and ask them to slow down, repeat themselves, or define a word. Someday, perhaps, I’ll get there. In the meantime, I’m trying to think of ways to keep my Mandarin from flagging during my almost 6-week absence from China. Podcasts and books, perhaps?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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.
“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.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
This Episode Brought to You by the Letter m (and i l y o h e n )
As I’ve written on a number of occasions, my language woes here are many. I have trouble articulating myself properly, speaking to my students, making small talk with teachers, etc. Just last week my banzhuren (the woman in charge of my class) came over to me saying something about a book and 25 kuai and I, to this day, do not understand what that was about. Apparently, however, I was not supposed to pay the 25 kuai (that much I could ask and understand the answer to), but two days later she showed up with a copy of a review book for me and the news that my students would be receiving theirs over the weekend. Why, and who’s paying for them? Mysteries both.
So that’s a classic case of language barrier in action. Another comes pretty much daily, when I stand in front of my class and say something in Chinese (like “last name”) that results in fits of giggles from my students. At first, I ignored these outbursts, but now I’ve started to question them with: “我说什么错了？”(What did I say wrong?) Sometimes the kids will tell me, and other times they won’t. I suspect that when they won’t it’s because I’ve said something inappropriate, but, again, mystery reigns.
Every Monday, I am obligated to attend two meetings: a full faculty meeting at 3 PM, and an English department meeting at 10:25 AM. The full faculty meetings are usually long (although not painfully so) and dull, as much for the local teachers as for us CEI fellows. I sorta try to pay attention, but my language skills do not allow me to glean full comprehension of anything and do not even let me catch the gist of some topics. I always bring my little vocab notebook and scribble away; sometimes this allows me to acquire such useful words as “lawn” and “bonus;” at other moments, my listening skills and the speakers’ accents combine in such horrifyingly inaccurate ways that my dictionary spits out engineering and computer science terminology. I keep trying though.
The English meetings are both nicer and scarier, because they are smaller. There are perhaps ten English teachers at our school, all of whom speak English with varying degrees of success. A few try to engage Mark and me in English conversation, while others will utter a word of English only under extreme duress. These meetings are casual, with teachers throwing around various questions and ideas for the classroom. Mark and I have been mostly quiet so far, except when practicing English with those teachers who have shown interest. We try to follow along as best we can, and when conversation moves slowly enough we sometimes can at least get the main ideas. However, the English teachers truly like to talk, and sometimes a particular topic gets them fired up, and everybody starts to talk at once. When this happens, I’m screwed. It’s a cacophonous mess, the universe’s sense of order ripped into spheres of utter chaos. If I can ever come to understand those moments, I will feel as though I am the best non-native Chinese speaker in existence. For now, Mark and I just wait for passions to cool.
So those are all distinctly language-based examples of communication difficulty, but there’s other sorts of communication too. I have two excellent stories for you that nicely illustrate this point: The Wuzixi (Noon Study) that Wasn’t, and The Bank Account Debacle
The Wuzixi (Noon Study) that Wasn’t
So, last Thursday I was to teach my usual noon study. It’s only a 35-minute class and quite casual. I normally just let the kids have a study hall, and that was my plan for Thursday too. However, when I arrived at my classroom, I saw that it was already quite occupied, and not with my students but with my banzhuren and what looked to be my students’ parents. I remembered YiMing saying something about there being a parents’ meeting on Thursday during lunch, but this description had not included the idea of there being fifty adults in my classroom when I expected to be able to use it. Lunch ends, after all, at 1:20, which is the time my class was to begin.
At first, I assumed the meeting was just running late, and I tried to keep my kids (congregated in the hallway just outside the door) on the quiet side. However, with 1:30 quickly approaching and my kids growing ever-more-antsy, it was clear I needed to take more drastic action. There was nowhere to go but outside, so that’s where I took them. I lost a few of my boys along the way, but it couldn’t be helped. After all, my class was one of two or three without access to their rooms, and I had an assortment of not-my-students tagging along, bringing my count of 49 up to at least 60. So I led the kids out and we made a circle, and I improved like mad. We did chants and songs and name games. I shouted myself hoarse and then some. All the while, I kept an eye on our room, in the hopes that at any moment the door would open, the parents would leave, and we could return to normal. No such luck. At 1:55, the time my wuzixi was scheduled to end, I let the kids go and I went back to drink some tea and soothe my poor throat. My banzhuren never said anything to me, so I guess that’s what I was expected to do?
The Bank Account Debacle
Last Sunday (I know, banks are open on Sunday! What a concept), Ma LiJun, Mark, and I went to the Agricultural Bank of China to open accounts. Our school does direct deposit, and because we hadn’t yet opened bank accounts we hadn’t been paid for September. Ma LiJun’s account should have been pretty straightforward to set-up. She would just need her government ID card and a couple of other easily-acquirable things. Mark and I, being Americans, required our passports and an official note from our school stating that we were employees there.
Once we arrived at the bank, we discovered that Ma LiJun could not, in fact, open an account, because her old credit card number was from a different province and thus they couldn’t find a record of it. Why this makes any sense at all I really don’t know.
Then it was Mark’s turn, and mine. Nervously, we handed over our passports and the note. At first they were confused as to how to use a passport rather than a Chinese ID card as a proof of ID. Once they figured that out, the real problems began. American passports, you see, list one’s surname on one line and follow it up on the second with one’s first and middle names. Our note from the school had our first names first and last names last and included no middle names at all. We tried to explain that middle names were not important in America and that only the first and last names mattered, but they wouldn’t budge. Much more important than the lack of middle name, however, and even the fact that the names were written in different orders, was the fact that while our passports had our names written in all caps, our school note had only the first letter of each name capitalized. MAJOR issue! Big, big problem! As Mark and I spent our first weeks here teaching the alphabet, we were able to explain, using proper terminology, that in English there’s (in this situation) no difference in meaning between big and small letters, but according to our teller that was absolutely not true, and having all caps versus just the first letter in caps meant that our names were entirely different on one form of ID than on the other. BIG problem.
So, in short, none of us opened accounts that day (don’t worry—we got a new note and opened them two days later).
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
On Recognizing One’s Own Limitations—Or, How I Ended up with 49 Chinese Essays
So, funny story. On Monday night, my students had their first test. We’d had a quiz before, during which I caught five cheaters. I was disappointed, but I figured it was the first major assessment, and that, after seeing the pretty rough consequences faced by said cheaters, the problems would diminish rapidly.
As I had before their quiz, before Monday’s test I discussed, in great detail, the consequences for cheating and what exactly constitutes cheating. This includes looking anywhere but at your paper or straight up, having anything on your desk aside from a pen and your test paper, rummaging in your desk, etc. My kids also have to put their English books and notebooks on the floor where I can see them too. I don’t take chances. I want to create “testing barriers” of sorts to erect around each student, but I haven’t found manila folders or something similar yet. I’m on the lookout.
Anyway, the test was going just fine for perhaps twenty minutes. Then, in the very back row, two very, very good students put their heads together, looking at the same paper and whispering.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Goodbye to English/Welcome to China (for real this time)
Hey everyone! Long time no post. I moved down to Heqing four days ago and haven’t had internet access until now. A lot’s been happening, and I really want to share it with everyone, but I also don’t want to overwhelm people with the posts that have been building up in word. So I think what I’m gonna do is post one of the three or so posts I’ve written every day or two. We’ll begin with this one. Also, in case I hadn’t been clear enough about this, I’d love to hear what any and all of you think about what I’m writing. I know a lot of it is pretty opinion-based, so if your opinions differ or whatever…yeah. Anyway, here’s my first backlogged post:
For all of the Summer Training Program, CEI billed itself as a bilingual organization, and there are many ways in which this is true. Announcements and emails were almost always given in both Chinese and English, many of the staff (although certainly not all) speak some Chinese, and the fellows communicated, during the STP, in a pidgin Chinglish. Generally speaking, the Chinese fellows speak much better English than the American fellows do Chinese, and thus many of our training sessions in the later part of the summer were not translated into Mandarin as thoroughly as they ought to have been. During Principals’ Week, however, we experienced the opposite phenomenon.
Suddenly, everything—every meeting, every announcement, every speech—was in Mandarin. For me, this was a ridiculously challenging situation. As I said above, in general the fellows, both American and Chinese, communicated in Chinglish—which meant that I could say things like “在我看来，STP 跟大学的orientation 有一点儿象 and probably be understood. With the principals and other school staff, no such luck—especially considering that when speaking Chinglish I tend to put the most complicated words in English.
Needless to say, many of the awkward moments during Principals’ Week were a direct result of this sudden crash course in all-day-Chinese. Even during my time in Beijing, we didn’t often have situations like this, because we only had class for 4-5 hours a day, and during the off time I hung out with Americans a lot (probably more than I should have). We spoke Chinese to each other a lot because of the language pledge, but we also spoke English when we needed to. Besides, it’s way easier to speak a language with other learners of that language than it is to speak with native speakers. I spoke Chinese with my roommate too, obviously, but if there was a word I didn’t know how to say and I said it in English, there was a good chance she’d either know it or be patient enough to wait while I looked it up. Usually, whenever I was in a situation where I had to speak only Chinese, I had more than one other non-native speaker with me, and we could help each other out more than Mark and I have been able to with just the two of us.
The first morning of principals’ week was so intense, and so frustrating, that I ended up getting back to my room and (unintentionally) bawling my eyes out to YanMei. It was the first time I’d cried in front of anyone since getting to China, and, even though I wasn’t happy about it, in some ways it felt good. The entire morning I’d felt trapped and stupid for not understanding, and I felt like I had to make a really good first impression, which was really hard to do when I couldn’t talk or understand what was being said. I did get the gist of a lot of it, but missing the nuance made complete comprehension a rare commodity. Talking to YanMei, who’s seen my progress from the first week through the STP, reminded me of where I’d started and gave me some hope for the future. That being said, I’m still super frustrated with my language ability, and I’m scared about how quickly I’ll be able to improve without proper, formal classes. I like to talk way too much to not be able to communicate fluently with anyone around me except Mark (who, although an awesome guy and great teacher, is not a chatterbox). I’m pretty sure the lack of English speaking companions is one of the reasons I’ve been writing so, so much. I actually finished my old journal last week (which had about 75 pages in it when I got to China) and had to start my new one.
It’s interesting, because when I was studying abroad I was pretty convinced that, with the exception of western toilets and washing machines/dryers, I was really living a Chinese life. Sure, I knew I had American friends and probably watched more American TV and stuff than I should have, but I also had a truly inflated notion of how much I was “roughing” it. The fact is, despite being very Chinese, Beijing maintains a certain aroma of western existence that isn’t echoed throughout the rest of the country (with the obvious exceptions of Shanghai and Hong Kong, if that counts). There are 10,000 expats in Beijing—most clustered in the Chaoyang district—and hence there’s a wide variety of food/retail offerings.
Most of the people here in Heqing have probably never been to Beijing or anywhere beyond Yunnan. Many might never have met a foreigner outside of last year’s CEI fellows (although they’ve probably seen some traveling between Dali and Lijiang, two big tourist destinations). Here, instead of trying to accommodate to you by speaking what little English they know, people expect you to accommodate to them. That’s how it should be—don’t get me wrong—but it does mean a more difficult day-to-day existence than I experienced in Beijing, where I on multiple occasions fought back against people speaking English to me by speaking only Mandarin. Plus the Heqing accent is quite different from what I’m used to up north, so even if people I’m talking with use vocab I know, there’s no guarantee I’ll understand.
Beyond language, there are innumerable customs and pieces of etiquette I am as of yet unfamiliar with. Ma LiJun and Li YiMing have been really helpful in that regard, but of course they don’t know everything either. Everything from what constitutes proper teaching attire to how to acknowledge/ignore people when you walk by them in the bathroom is utterly different from what I’m used to.
Colin (my OSM) put it really well yesterday (Thursday) when we were sitting in a plant shop in Heqing City, waiting for the rain to stop. We were discussing adjustment periods and things of that sort, and he said, “The circumstances will not change, but you will change.” Simple enough, of course, and a fact I already understood about my time here, but he articulated it well. I really do wonder who I’ll be at the end of this. Time will tell.
For all of the Summer Training Program, CEI billed itself as a bilingual organization, and there are many ways in which this is true. Announcements and emails were almost always given in both Chinese and English, many of the staff (although certainly not all) speak some Chinese, and the fellows communicated, during the STP, in a pidgin Chinglish. Generally speaking, the Chinese fellows speak much better English than the American fellows do Chinese, and thus many of our training sessions in the later part of the summer were not translated into Mandarin as thoroughly as they ought to have been. During Principals’ Week, however, we experienced the opposite phenomenon.
Suddenly, everything—every meeting, every announcement, every speech—was in Mandarin. For me, this was a ridiculously challenging situation. As I said above, in general the fellows, both American and Chinese, communicated in Chinglish—which meant that I could say things like “在我看来，STP 跟大学的orientation 有一点儿象 and probably be understood. With the principals and other school staff, no such luck—especially considering that when speaking Chinglish I tend to put the most complicated words in English.
Needless to say, many of the awkward moments during Principals’ Week were a direct result of this sudden crash course in all-day-Chinese. Even during my time in Beijing, we didn’t often have situations like this, because we only had class for 4-5 hours a day, and during the off time I hung out with Americans a lot (probably more than I should have). We spoke Chinese to each other a lot because of the language pledge, but we also spoke English when we needed to. Besides, it’s way easier to speak a language with other learners of that language than it is to speak with native speakers. I spoke Chinese with my roommate too, obviously, but if there was a word I didn’t know how to say and I said it in English, there was a good chance she’d either know it or be patient enough to wait while I looked it up. Usually, whenever I was in a situation where I had to speak only Chinese, I had more than one other non-native speaker with me, and we could help each other out more than Mark and I have been able to with just the two of us.
The first morning of principals’ week was so intense, and so frustrating, that I ended up getting back to my room and (unintentionally) bawling my eyes out to YanMei. It was the first time I’d cried in front of anyone since getting to China, and, even though I wasn’t happy about it, in some ways it felt good. The entire morning I’d felt trapped and stupid for not understanding, and I felt like I had to make a really good first impression, which was really hard to do when I couldn’t talk or understand what was being said. I did get the gist of a lot of it, but missing the nuance made complete comprehension a rare commodity. Talking to YanMei, who’s seen my progress from the first week through the STP, reminded me of where I’d started and gave me some hope for the future. That being said, I’m still super frustrated with my language ability, and I’m scared about how quickly I’ll be able to improve without proper, formal classes. I like to talk way too much to not be able to communicate fluently with anyone around me except Mark (who, although an awesome guy and great teacher, is not a chatterbox). I’m pretty sure the lack of English speaking companions is one of the reasons I’ve been writing so, so much. I actually finished my old journal last week (which had about 75 pages in it when I got to China) and had to start my new one.
It’s interesting, because when I was studying abroad I was pretty convinced that, with the exception of western toilets and washing machines/dryers, I was really living a Chinese life. Sure, I knew I had American friends and probably watched more American TV and stuff than I should have, but I also had a truly inflated notion of how much I was “roughing” it. The fact is, despite being very Chinese, Beijing maintains a certain aroma of western existence that isn’t echoed throughout the rest of the country (with the obvious exceptions of Shanghai and Hong Kong, if that counts). There are 10,000 expats in Beijing—most clustered in the Chaoyang district—and hence there’s a wide variety of food/retail offerings.
Most of the people here in Heqing have probably never been to Beijing or anywhere beyond Yunnan. Many might never have met a foreigner outside of last year’s CEI fellows (although they’ve probably seen some traveling between Dali and Lijiang, two big tourist destinations). Here, instead of trying to accommodate to you by speaking what little English they know, people expect you to accommodate to them. That’s how it should be—don’t get me wrong—but it does mean a more difficult day-to-day existence than I experienced in Beijing, where I on multiple occasions fought back against people speaking English to me by speaking only Mandarin. Plus the Heqing accent is quite different from what I’m used to up north, so even if people I’m talking with use vocab I know, there’s no guarantee I’ll understand.
Beyond language, there are innumerable customs and pieces of etiquette I am as of yet unfamiliar with. Ma LiJun and Li YiMing have been really helpful in that regard, but of course they don’t know everything either. Everything from what constitutes proper teaching attire to how to acknowledge/ignore people when you walk by them in the bathroom is utterly different from what I’m used to.
Colin (my OSM) put it really well yesterday (Thursday) when we were sitting in a plant shop in Heqing City, waiting for the rain to stop. We were discussing adjustment periods and things of that sort, and he said, “The circumstances will not change, but you will change.” Simple enough, of course, and a fact I already understood about my time here, but he articulated it well. I really do wonder who I’ll be at the end of this. Time will tell.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Some Observations on Language and Culture
Now that I’ve finally started blogging, there’re a few topics I want to hit before they become less timely. In other words, there might be several posts over the next couple days while I talk about my first two weeks here, but generally entries will probably be more spread out. Right now, I want to write the first of what will doubtless become countless entries concerning language and culture. Oh, before I get started, I just uploaded my first batch of photos! Check ‘em out: http://anamericaninheqing.shutterfly.com/
During the course of the Summer Training Program, the fellows are all living in dorms, with three fellows sharing each room. Maybe CEI put some thought into who was going to room with whom, or maybe it was just luck, but I could not be happier with my roommates. I live with Kristin, who grew up outside Seattle and graduated from Middlebury, and Chen Yanmei (Amber), who grew up in Guangdong province. As some of you folks might remember, I lived with a Chinese roommate when I studied abroad. I learned so much from her, and I know that without her my Beijing experience wouldn’t have been half as fulfilling. At the same time, we were (and probably still are) very different people.
Yanmei, on the other hand, is somebody I started to connect with almost instantly; she, Kristin, and I share significant values and are going through similar transitions. Even though Yanmei’s far less out of her comfort zone than Kristin and I are, having come from the States, CEI isn’t easy for her either. The three of us have formed a great support network for one another, celebrating good days and offering comfort when things go south. Yanmei’s also been so helpful in terms of my Chinese. Basically, most of the time I speak Chinese to her and she speaks English to me.
Kristin’s Chinese is a bit better than mine, and Yanmei’s English is better than Kristin’s Chinese, but it’s pretty amazing how much more comfortable with my Chinese I’ve gotten since arriving here. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still floundering a lot—but at least I’m not nearly as nervous to start talking these days. It helps that the American fellows have two hours of Chinese class every weekday afternoon and will presumably until we move to our schools.
I’d forgotten how much I love being able to move casually between English and Chinese, to switch languages mid-sentence and still be pretty darn sure that everyone around understands. Chinglish is the language of choice in Lincang, with fellows (both Chinese and American) switching all the time. I think as the STP continues and both nationalities start to feel more settled into using the other language, this phenomenon will only get more intense. Maybe we’ll create our own pidgin dialect?
Also, I will certainly write about Lincang Number One Middle School at some point, but I would just like to say that ninth graders should not under any circumstances be in school from 7:30 AM- 11:30 PM, and they shouldn’t have class on Saturday. I especially believe this because when the kids have class campus-wide bells start ringing at 6:40 AM. On Saturdays. Like I said, more on this topic later.
This morning a bunch of us went hiking, which in China does not necessarily mean dirt paths snaking gradually up a mountain. No, no. Instead, we had stairs going basically straight up a mountain. Lots of huffing and puffing, but we got to the top eventually and saw some beautiful views along the way. At the summit we celebrated with a picnic of junk food acquired from the on-campus shop. It was pretty funny. Tonight is dedicated to karaoke, which should be fun. I haven’t done that since the choir went to Japan.
Well, that’s all for now. Expect more soon, like I said.
During the course of the Summer Training Program, the fellows are all living in dorms, with three fellows sharing each room. Maybe CEI put some thought into who was going to room with whom, or maybe it was just luck, but I could not be happier with my roommates. I live with Kristin, who grew up outside Seattle and graduated from Middlebury, and Chen Yanmei (Amber), who grew up in Guangdong province. As some of you folks might remember, I lived with a Chinese roommate when I studied abroad. I learned so much from her, and I know that without her my Beijing experience wouldn’t have been half as fulfilling. At the same time, we were (and probably still are) very different people.
Yanmei, on the other hand, is somebody I started to connect with almost instantly; she, Kristin, and I share significant values and are going through similar transitions. Even though Yanmei’s far less out of her comfort zone than Kristin and I are, having come from the States, CEI isn’t easy for her either. The three of us have formed a great support network for one another, celebrating good days and offering comfort when things go south. Yanmei’s also been so helpful in terms of my Chinese. Basically, most of the time I speak Chinese to her and she speaks English to me.
Kristin’s Chinese is a bit better than mine, and Yanmei’s English is better than Kristin’s Chinese, but it’s pretty amazing how much more comfortable with my Chinese I’ve gotten since arriving here. Don’t get me wrong—I’m still floundering a lot—but at least I’m not nearly as nervous to start talking these days. It helps that the American fellows have two hours of Chinese class every weekday afternoon and will presumably until we move to our schools.
I’d forgotten how much I love being able to move casually between English and Chinese, to switch languages mid-sentence and still be pretty darn sure that everyone around understands. Chinglish is the language of choice in Lincang, with fellows (both Chinese and American) switching all the time. I think as the STP continues and both nationalities start to feel more settled into using the other language, this phenomenon will only get more intense. Maybe we’ll create our own pidgin dialect?
Also, I will certainly write about Lincang Number One Middle School at some point, but I would just like to say that ninth graders should not under any circumstances be in school from 7:30 AM- 11:30 PM, and they shouldn’t have class on Saturday. I especially believe this because when the kids have class campus-wide bells start ringing at 6:40 AM. On Saturdays. Like I said, more on this topic later.
This morning a bunch of us went hiking, which in China does not necessarily mean dirt paths snaking gradually up a mountain. No, no. Instead, we had stairs going basically straight up a mountain. Lots of huffing and puffing, but we got to the top eventually and saw some beautiful views along the way. At the summit we celebrated with a picnic of junk food acquired from the on-campus shop. It was pretty funny. Tonight is dedicated to karaoke, which should be fun. I haven’t done that since the choir went to Japan.
Well, that’s all for now. Expect more soon, like I said.
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