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?

A New Day

After my last post, people really stepped up to offer comfort. So thank you for the comments, for the emails (of which I still have half a dozen lacking replies), for the e-hugs. It’s amazing to remember just how much I’m loved.

Just over three months ago—July 15^th—I stepped off of a plane in Beijing. Since then there have been a good number of moments where I wanted nothing more than to step back on. That’s to be expected, but, frankly, I think I need to be done with that stage. I need to choose between feeling sorry for myself and feeling committed to Pengtun, between resentment towards the relative ease of my family and friends’ lives in the States and acceptance of the simple knowledge that for the next two years life is going to be harder than what I’m used to.

Every day, I need to remember that I’m here. I’m here for reasons that I chose and for the possibility of reasons that would reveal themselves to me only after arrival.

I’m here to teach, not only expanding my students’ knowledge of English but opening their eyes to a part of the world they might otherwise never encounter. I’m only one American, it’s true, but that’s one more than most if not all of my kids have met before, and it’s one more than they might ever have met depending on where their lives take them. The same is true for some of the teachers, and for many of the farmers and other workers in Pengtun. Barely a day goes by when I don’t encounter curiosity or confusion from locals. Elderly women in traditional Bai clothing smile and shoot me thumbs up as I jog by the lake. Construction workers call out “Hello!” on my way to (and back from) the shower. Small children standing on the back of their parents’ and grandparents’ motorcycles stare and whisper. I educate by my mere presence. As the only non-Chinese woman in a very Chinese place, locals’ opinions and views of the Western world, and the women who call it home, are affected by their interactions with me.

I’m here to teach the teachers, too. I can’t change the system of Chinese testing that’s meant to lure top kids to the surface and leave the rest drudging along lake bottom. I can’t fix the local English teachers’ pronunciation if they aren’t interested in practicing, and I can’t improve their classroom technique unless they want to make changes. However, I can show them that there’s more than one way to run a classroom—that, even while preparing students for their tests, you have the option to prize independent thinking and understanding over rote memorization. I can show that I don’t tolerate cheating and that I won’t accept the notion of my lowest ten or twenty kids just not being able to learn. I can express my discomfort with the use of corporal punishment and affirm that I will neither hit my kids nor send them to be disciplined by another teacher who will.

I’m also here to learn. I’m here to acquire Mandarin proficiency and to figure out how to interact in a place where I can’t communicate fluently or even consistently conversationally. I’m learning about how to be an effective teacher, and every day I’m learning more about just how crazy my native tongue is. I’m seeing how most of the world lives. I will never be Chinese, and despite the adjustments I’ve had to make in my life I will never experience the same kind of existence as most people in this place, but I do get a taste of it. I’m learning to make due, not necessarily with less, but with different. One really can get almost anything in the States, and in rural Yunnan there are many products that aren’t available—hence care packages containing cocoa powder and dried basil, and baking adventures replaced with rice cooker adventures. Ultimately, most of what I’m learning I’m probably still not aware of myself. I imagine it’ll take some time after I return home to process, sorta like I processed Mac last year.

I’m here to explore my own limits—to see how far I can and want to push my comfort zone. Never in my life have I been so consistently surrounded with situations that make me uncomfortable. I’m shy with people I don’t know well under the best of circumstances, so the fact that here I not only spend much of my social time with people I don’t know well but with people I don’t know well and with whom I have trouble communicating is terrifying indeed. Whenever I want anything, be it directions, advice, or a price; I have to ask with a language that doesn’t come naturally to me. At this point, I don’t have the vocab to order my usual small skim lite-whip mocha at a coffee shop. That’s fine, as there are obviously no coffee shops around here, but it’s just an example of how a simple interaction—something I never, ever have to think about in the States—transforms into a task that I would have to plan for in advance or use an obscene amount of gesturing and explaining to accomplish. I’ve lost my Stateside anonymity: the ability to be out and about without the eyes of others focused upon me. I am, in a very real way, a Pengtun celebrity. While from a young age I sought the spotlight (acting, anyone?), as a young adult I’ve loved situations where I can just be. I can do that here, but knowing that while I’m being me I’m being watched takes some adjusting to.

I’m here for awhile but not forever. That’s a big one. I’m here for two years—a long time, perhaps, considering that I’m all of 23, but not a lifetime. I’m not an immigrant, seeking better than the place I left, knowing that a return to familiar surroundings is almost certainly out of the cards. Ultimately, I’ll be going home, back to the States, back to comfort and ease and all of the things I’m missing now.

Of course, it won’t all be comfort and ease; in fact, if things go as planned I’ll be hitting the books once again, in one field or another. Life there will have its challenges and its shortcomings too, and I expect there will be moments, many of them, when I want nothing more than to step back on the plane again. But I’ll deal with that when I get to it.

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.