An American in America

September 1^st, 2011.

It’s been exactly six weeks since I got home.  This last week was a bit strange for me; my facebook feed filled with farewells from friends (I like alliteration today, apparently) headed back to China. They’re starting their second year now. I could be too, if I wanted to, but instead I’m here.

‘Here,’ at the moment, is my parents’ house, and ‘here’ will likely remain my parents’ house until January or so. When I got home, my plans for this fall were unclear. My friend and I had planned to live in Virginia together, but unfortunately the housing didn’t work out, which left me with a choice to make. I looked into heading up to DC, and I thought about spending this whole year in Berkeley, but ultimately I realized that what I really wanted, more than anything, was family time. For the last six years, I’ve seen my parents and sisters about once a semester, and after I begin grad school, there’s no telling where I’ll be or how often I’ll be able to get home. So I’m here now, and, for the most part, glad of it.

Of course, I’m still processing China. Not a day, or an hour, I think, goes by without me thinking about my students, my TFC friends, my old Heqing stomping grounds. I wonder what Pengtun is like now and how much it will have changed by the time I see it again. And yes, sometimes I wish I was still there. But mostly I don’t. Mostly I just find myself grateful for the time I spent and for the time I’m spending here.

Here is singing in a choir again, meeting my Dad for coffee, going to the gym with my Mom, going shopping with my sister, cooking for everyone. Here is bike rides, like the ones in China but longer and far less beautiful but somehow still deeply satisfying. Here is scrapbooking a year’s incredible experience, studying econ so I can take the foreign service test, keeping up with Mandarin. Here is still unemployed (for now), but here is a research project at the museum, volunteering as a Hebrew School teacher and musician at the synagogue, helping with an interfaith youth group my sister’s a part of.

It would be pretty great if I could say that all my pre-Yunnan inhibitions and social awkwardness were vanquished by a year where I was always out of my comfort zone and got used to it, but alas, I fear that my constant exposure to risk in China made me crave even more comfort than usual. I think that’ll change though. Ultimately, I think that, although I am an American in America, I’m also an American in flux. I don’t have both feet on the ground quite yet. And, for now at least, I’m ok with waiting. I’m ok with taking time to figure things out. Yunnan taught me nothing if not patience.

So, this is it. The last entry. However, I do intend to start posting on my food blog soon. So, for anyone who’s interested: Em Bakes. I’ve been cooking up a storm down here in Georgia. Stay tuned, folks. And thanks for listening. Your constant support, through email and skype and comments and facebook and everywhere, meant the world to me.

Over and out. 

Moving On

Last night, I lit a candle, as I often do on Fridays. Actually, normally I light two, as it’s Shabbat, but last night there was only one, and its makeshift candlestick was a few drops of wax dripped onto Mark’s old hard-drive. My real candlesticks are wrapped in socks, which have been nestled in a knit hat and then deposited into a knit bag currently residing in the top of my suitcase.

I have less than an hour remaining at Pengtun Middle School.

My room is as bare as it was when I moved in—far more so, in fact, as I’ve essentially cleared it out but for a corner of the kitchen in which resides a spattering of items to hand down to next year’s fellows. I’m actually taking less than I’m leaving. I organized our last class as an “auction” where my kids could use their class points to bid on such exciting items as notebooks, bags, American money, and “Miss Emily’s Tea Mug” (which went for a frightening $800). And last night I gave my coat hangers, some bowls, and a lot of school supplies to my few students not at home for the weekend.

So, other than one small box of books I mailed last week, everything I’m carrying back to America fit into one suitcase, one briefcase, and the backpack I took with me for my new year travels. Packing, which always seems such a formidable task prior to commencement, always seems to manage to happen quite quickly once the first step is taken.

There’s going to be a lot of travel over the next day or so. A bus ride to Heqing. A night bus to Kunming. A cab to the airport. A flight to Beijing. A subway (actually three, I think) to the south train station. A train to Tianjin. Once I arrive in Tianjin, I’ll have two or three days there and a couple in Beijing before getting on the biggest plane I’ll have seen in over a year and experiencing the longest 7 minutes (4:03 on 7/21/2011 to 4:10 on 7/21/2011) of my life. Then it’ll be a short little O’Hare to Atlanta hop—a trip I’ve taken probably half a dozen times en route to Mac.

For now, there’s me and my couch and perhaps 40 minutes of stillness. Stillness has been a rarity of late, so I’m trying to enjoy it. This is, in fact, the first time I’ve written more than a couple of paragraphs (this “final” Pengtun entry has been started and interrupted at least three times). Hopefully there will be time enough to finish and post prior to getting on the road. And once I’m in Beijing I hope to finish a half-completed entry about the travels of last week’s break.

The last few days have been full of 3+ hour farewell dinners, visits from my kids, and lots of lesson planning. On Tuesday evening all the TFC fellows shared dinner and drinks and silly awards. Mine was for “Culinary Excellence” and involved two cookbooks, which’ll be fun to play with. We also got gifts from both the elementary and middle school administrations, so I now have beautiful silver bracelets that I’ll never be able to wear without thinking of this year.

This morning I finally got a chance to zen as I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of mango-chocolate chip pancakes (a dish that would be at home in any American kitchen but for the fact that it was prepared in a wok and consumed with chopsticks). It was quiet, most students at home, the pitter-patter of what seems eternal rain competing ever so slightly with the music I was streaming.

I biked into town to drop off some pictures I’m printing for my kids, then met up with Arianne and her mother for lunch. We actually went to the same noodle place all the fellows ate at on our very first trip to Heqing, back last August. I hadn’t been since. It seemed like a nice bit of closure.

Then I went to empty my bank account and rode home with the equivalent of well over $1000 dollars in my raincoat’s inside pocket. This huge sum of cash was made even more dramatic by the fact that the highest value bill in China is 100 kuai, which means that I had many, many, many bills. I sure hope I don’t get robbed between here and Atlanta.

The rest of the day’s been quiet as I finished packing, scrubbing down my room, and making several trips to the trash pit. A couple of my girls who stay on campus most weekends called me up to the classroom, so I went to sit with them for a few minutes. I hadn’t expected to feel anything related to the space, but as I walked through the nearly empty room, seeing each student in his or her seat, I came close to tears. It was almost a relief—knowing that, despite its challenges, this year’s work has had enough positive impact on me that its end carries mourning as well as joy.

There are lots of things I need to process, and luckily once I’m home (in 6 days!!) I should have time to do just that. And I’ll probably have things to say about Beijing, and about reverse culture shock once I’m back Stateside, so this is by no means goodbye to the blog. It is goodbye to Pengtun, to Heqing, to the world that’s formed my life for the last year. As much as I’ve looked forward to this day, actually walking out of that school gate suddenly seems a heavy task. Change, even when desired, is hard. But it’s time to go.

Moral Ambiguity

Sometimes I think about what would happen if you put last July’s Emily Cohen and me into the same room. I’m the same person, if hopefully a little more mature and a little wiser and with a few more life skills, but there are things about me that have most definitely changed. There are stances I’ve taken and things that I’ve done that last summer’s me would never have considered. Some are rather ridiculous, like the fact that I, Emily Cohen, now wear eye-liner and lip gloss almost daily (nobody is more shocked than I, I assure you) so that my kids will think of me as a little older and thus take me more seriously. I also bake, knowingly, with bleached flour. Some are stupid and dangerous, like biking on mountain roads without a helmet (sorry, mom!), because bike helmets just don’t really exist in China, and perhaps not washing all my veggies as meticulously as I might. And some continue to make me wrestle, resigned but not content.

I remember so clearly during the very first week training reading an essay by one of Pengtun’s former fellows about corporal punishment in the classroom. He wrote eloquently about his personal moral struggle with how to handle behavior problems in a system that prizes physical over all other forms of discipline. He decided that he would bring students to the lead teacher and to the principal, where they would almost certainly be hit. Reading the essay, I remember understanding his logic and respecting his decision but firmly convinced that I would never, under any circumstances, make a similar call.

I have. I have on not just one or two but on a number of occasions. I’ve brought kids to the lead teacher. I’ve brought kids to the principal. I have grabbed kids by their upper arms and collars to make them stand up. I have collected lighters and knives by using pressure points. I’m not proud of any of this, but I’ve learned this year that there are times when, to a certain degree, it can be necessary to bend one’s personal ethics in order to better mold to and positively impact one’s environment. I know, I know, that sounds really bad, and where are the boundaries? Does allowing my kids to be hit this year mean that I’ll make the same decision regarding my own children in 10 years, or that if I end up teaching in the States I’ll wish I was allowed to strike my students?

I don’t think so. I remember conversations at the Minneapolis public school where I worked where teachers lamented phone calls to parents, because they knew that reports of bad behavior at school would result in hitting at home. Nonetheless, at school, there was no hitting. At school, there were other punishments, a system that maxed out with expulsion rather than slapping. There were also reward systems, a relatively new concept for my students. This year, I’ve implemented an extensive rewards system that’s been largely effective for my good kids but hasn’t succeeded in curbing bad behavior. For that, as it was with the teachers at my old school, I’ve needed punishments.

Since September, I’ve tried a plethora of American-style discipline techniques, ranging from seat changing to lectures to holding students back after class to texting parents to extra homework to sharing treats with only well-behaved students to kicking students out of the classroom into the cold in the middle of winter (I lived in Minnesota for five years. Yunnan cold is not cold). Some have been vetoed by the administration of my school, others by the lead teacher, leaving me with few options and even fewer that I’m capable of enforcing without help. Calling on this help risks corporal punishment for my impish students; not calling on it risks an utterly chaotic classroom for my engaged and dedicated students. I’ve come to the difficult decision that the latter is worse.

These kids have been hit by their teachers since they were in first grade—swats on the legs and top of the head for not paying attention, strikes on the hands for incomplete homework, being dragged by the ear or hair from classroom to office for bad behavior. Hitting is technically illegal, and hence it isn’t regulated. Although I’ve never witnessed this, I’ve heard stories of students slapped across the face, thrown to the floor, hit so hard they dropped out of school. My poorly-behaved students do not take my ‘lighter’ punishments seriously. If I were their only teacher I would probably have more success, but the 1-4 hours of the school day that are left in my care aren’t enough to mitigate the other 10-13 spent with hitting teachers.

I will never hit my students. I’m actually, according to CEI, not allowed to hit my students. I will, however, continue to bring my kids to teachers who take reports of bad behavior as cause for physical punishment. I have moral qualms with this, but I have deeper moral qualms with the notion of a few badly-behaved children keeping the other 40 from being a part of a classroom conducive to study. My students are products of their school environment, an environment that, unlike school environments in most of the United States, includes hitting. I don’t like it, but like so many other parts of rural education in China, I’ll work with it.

Monday Musings

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.

December 17th

It’s December 17th, 2010. (My kids actually just learned how to say that. Supposedly, at least.) I don’t remember what I was doing on December 17th, 2009 or on December 17th, 2008, but December 17th, 2007 was quite literally the longest day of my life.

December 17th, 2007 began with karaoke. There was a student deal for the place near my campus in Beijing: if you entered after midnight, you could have a room for 60 kuai a person until 6 AM. So, around 12:30, my American friends and I made our way over to meet up with our Chinese roommates. Our roommates had moved out of the dorms the previous day, but we all wanted to see one another once more before heading home. We sang, we danced, we hugged, we took pictures aplenty, and, around 4, we started wandering back to our dorms to catch a couple hours sleep.

The morning was full of last-minute packing, a cab ride to the airport, and hours of waiting. Many of the kids in my study abroad program were on the same flight to Chicago, from where we’d split up for our domestic legs. We left Beijing in the afternoon and got to Chicago, according to the clocks, a couple hours later. In China, of course, it was already the next day. The flight was a bit delayed, and customs took awhile, so after I got through and transferred to the domestic terminal, I only had enough time to grab a tall-skim-lite-whip-peppermint-mocha at a Starbucks kiosk before boarding my next plane. America hit me in all of its holiday glory (and a huge boost of caffeine).

The flight to Atlanta I don’t remember in the slightest, but I do remember finding my parents. They were waiting for me at the place where most people exit security. My plane, however, had landed elsewhere, so I came up on them from behind. We drove home. I went to sleep eventually. It had been December 17th for almost 36 hours. Christmas Eve was a week later. I felt I’d been gone for so long, and I was happy to be home.

It’s December 17th, 2010. I’ve been in China for just over five months—almost a month and a half longer than my entire semester abroad—and I’m not on a plane right now. I’ll be on a plane in a month, but that plane will be to Thailand (!) and I’ll be back here about 5-6 weeks later for another semester that won’t end until mid-July.

It’s hard to be gone during the holidays. I’ve skipped Thanksgiving a lot, and there have been years when, due to how early Hanukkah’s fallen, I’ve been at school the whole time. But I’ve never skipped Christmas. Yes, I realize that I’m Jewish and that I’m considering rabbinical school, but Christmas to me has never been a religious thing. Christmas is fresh pine needles, our Christmas Eve candlelit tea party (more aptly described as a cookie party, though, to be fair, we do always have a cup or two of tea with our huge platefuls of sweets), singing carols around the piano (yes, we actually do that), being woken up by my sisters and tiptoeing to the living room hearth to experience that once-a-year feeling of a fully stuffed stocking.

I’m still not sure what I’m planning on for grad school (it’s down to either Rabbinical School or a masters and maybe Ph.D in early American history), but I do know that people matter to me more than I’d realized before. For a variety of reasons, I’m not visiting the States over the semester break, but once I get back home more permanently I’m going to make a much greater effort to travel and see people I care about. Obviously finances and obligations like school/work will make it impossible for me to travel whenever and wherever I like, but I’m considering trying to live within driving distance of my folks, and, if I have a year before grad school, I’m determined to spend it somewhere where I already have family or at least one close friend.

Although I won’t be home for Christmas this year, nor will I be alone. All of the Heqing fellows are headed to (surprise surprise) Dali, where some Lincang fellows will apparently be rendez vousing as well. I’m sure it’ll be a nice weekend, that we’ll eat good food (like cheese!) and walk around and enjoy ourselves. The Heqing fellows are doing Secret Santas as well, so that’s always fun. Our big break, however, doesn’t come until mid-January, so it’ll be back to school on Monday December 27th. I suppose in the states there are plenty of people in a similar boat who won’t get a month off later, so I still consider myself quite lucky.

There’s no doubt that I’m doing better here than I was a couple months ago. My language still isn’t improving at the rate I’d like, in my classroom I’m still having discipline and motivation programs galore, and relationships with the other teachers are rather slowly forming, but I know there’s been progress. Ultimately, I see next semester as a chance to start again, at least with my kids. There are some things I really, really need to establish better, and I think a new semester will be a great chance to do that. For now, I’ve got just shy of a month to get through two and a bit more units and review like crazy for the Final. Earlier this week, I made each kid write down his or her goal for the Final and gave them my goals. Surprisingly, most of my students seemed to get what I was after, aiming neither too high nor too low. I made them write their goals before I showed them the ones I had in mind for each of them, and most were within 10% of each other. We’ll have to see how it goes. The Mid-Term was a disaster grade-wise, but I’ve changed my teaching and testing styles fairly dramatically since, so hopefully that will prove helpful.

This weekend will mostly be a working one, but I’ve got Christmas music galore, I’ve bookmarked “Love Actually” on one of the movie streaming sites here, and I’m learning how to knit toe-up socks. I’m also greatly anticipating not one or two, but, at last count, four holiday packages currently winging their way across the Pacific. I am so loved. And once I get my parents’ peppermint extract, peppermint hot chocolate and mochas are so happening.

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.

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.

L'Shana Tovah

It’s Erev Rosh Hashanah—the beginning of the Jewish New Year. I got out of class about forty minutes ago, at 8:30 PM, and came back here to my room, to do whatever prayers I could. I don’t have a proper prayer book of my own, but I found a rather unallowable copy of a mahzor online and downloaded it. Of course, most of what I’m doing this Rosh Hashanah would be considered unkosher by many. I’m not attending services, I’m working, I’m on my computer, and I’m praying completely by myself. I’ve lit Shabbat candles alone on many an occasion, and I’ve done Hanukkah alone, but being without a Jewish community for the High Holy Days is new for me.

This isn’t my first time celebrating in China. When I studied abroad, I attended services at Kehillat Beijing, a liberal alternative to Chabad. It was an almost entirely ex-pat congregation, with some folks just around for a year or two and others who’d spent most of their adult lives in China. I remember being surprised by the familiarity of it all, from the prayer books to the food to the little kids in kippas running up and down the aisle. Although I didn’t go to services regularly during that semester, I really appreciated the welcoming people I found there, and if I ever move to Beijing I’ll definitely get involved.

The last two years, of course, I’ve been in Minnesota, where I was given the incredible opportunity to lead services at Mac. I learned a good chunk of the Conservative mahzor and was able to spend the time with a community I truly love. I miss that now, in the same way that I missed my childhood congregation in Virginia when my family moved to New Jersey. At this point though, I’d take almost any Jewish community.

Judaism is very much a communal religion. Technically, you’re not even supposed to do many prayers without a minyan—a group of ten people (or ten men, depending on how Conservative you are). I’ve never spent a Rosh Hashanah I can remember without a service of some sort, without a group of people who share some background with me. I’m the only Jew in Pengtun. It’s quite possible I’m the only Jew in Heqing, in fact. There are a fair number of Israeli tourists up in Lijiang and down in Dali, but as far as I know nobody put any sort of Rosh Hashanah thing together.

I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m sad. It’s just…quite different, especially when contrasted with the last two years. As is the case with everything here, I’m having to make adjustments, decide on my absolutes, and find a balance.

So, in terms of Rosh Hashanah, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to skip my classes. I could have, fairly easily, switched with another teacher, but I felt like without the justification of services there was no reason for me to do so. I'd only be alone, instead of with people, and when you're celebrating the birthday of the world, I think it makes sense to be with people--even my little Chinese students. (Yom Kippur’s different. It’s a Saturday this year, but if it weren’t I would definitely skip.) As it happens, Thursdays I have all my classes from 11:15-3:45, so the morning and later afternoon are completely free. I plan to do what I can in terms of replicating a service in my room tomorrow morning, although I’m missing some key components (like, you know, a torah. And a tallit. And a shofar. And a congregation). Aside from that, I’ll probably take a walk next to the lake/marsh by the school. I’ll take some time to feel the world.

The weather’s changing. It’s back to grey and white today, but Monday morning the clouds were made of wisps, licking the tops of the mountains. We could see them properly—surrounding Pengtun, scratching the sky, sunlight catching on patches of earth. Monday night, Mary and I took a walk out to the road that runs by the rice paddies behind the school. It was pitch black, enough so that we had to be careful not to fall into the rice paddies, and the heavens were full. I’ve grown so accustomed to cloudy nights that the number of stars I could see took me by surprise. Blue skies, and starry nights, never fail to make me at least slightly more cheerful, and while I’ve never forgotten what a special place I’m in, Monday made it easier to keep in mind.

I did, also, make honey cake today. It came out surprisingly well, all things considered. It’s certainly not as good as an oven-baked one, but my little rice cooker is a fighter. I had to use instant coffee though, and I didn’t have vanilla, or lemon juice. Oh well. It still tastes good. I have an apple on reserve for tomorrow as well, and, of course, more honey. There will also be a rice cooker challah in the works at some point in the near future. I’m a bit more nervous about how that’ll turn out. Needless to say, it will not be a pretty braided loaf, but maybe I can spiral it…?

I was thinking, earlier this week, how amazing it will be to have not one, not two, but three New Years in this place. Rosh Hashanah is the first, and then January, and finally the Chinese New Year—which will be mine: rabbit. I’m provided with a lot of good excuses for reflection. What kind of a person do I want to be this year? By the time the year of the rabbit rolls around, what do I want to look back and smile at from the proceeding months?

The answers to some of those questions are obvious. I want to be a person better equipped in terms of linguistic and cultural understanding, and I want to be a better teacher. I want to have mastered the art of cooking pancakes on a hot plate. All of those things, I think, will develop naturally, just by virtue of my being here (and loving pancakes). But I also want to be more outgoing. I want to embrace my world here in a way that, so far, I’ve been reticent to. I want to get more comfortable with being uncomfortable, in such a way that what’s uncomfortable for me now stops being such.

For now, I’m lucky to be able to take these ten Days of Awe as true time for thought.