Today was the first day of class, but it held more mysteries than known quantities. How much English would the students know? We were teaching the first period of the day at 8:00, would the rooms even be open? Would the classrooms have the audio / visual components that we were promised? How old would the students be? Would they respond to humor, or did they want something more serious? Were they willing to even try speaking English? My class sizes range between 40 and 60, but how many students would actually show up?
I found out the answer to that last question was 9. Of the five teachers, three of them had full classrooms, I had nine students, and Ash had none. His classroom wasn’t even open. Ash sat down in the teacher’s lounge (1) to bunker down until his 10:30 class, and I set to teaching the students that I had. The lesson plan that I had prepared for fifty-five students went much more quickly with nine. I had hoped to gauge their creativity by having them play a form of “Two Truths and a Lie.” I think the concept was lost on them, and I did not hear a single lie. On top of that, it’s hard to get lost in a crowd of nine, and the students were far too nervous to get any response other than silent, slightly quizzical stares. No voices, no laughter. I was alone with 9 furrowed brows.
At 8:30 there was a commotion in the hall. A river of students seemed to materialize and flow past my door, making it difficult to hear the already soft-spoken students. I stepped outside under the guise of quieting the commotion, but I think what I really wanted was to escape the mind-numbing monotony of my sabotaged lesson plan.
I step outside to see Mr. Wang, my boss, frantically moving through the students. Apparently there was a miscommunication, and Ash’s students finally arrived. I called him, and told him the good(ish) news, but not all of the hundred-or-so students could be his. I asked one student, and it turned out they were mine. I told him where to go, and when I stepped into my classroom for the second time that day, I saw many, many students. Then the bell rang for the mid-class break, and there was nothing I could do but put my head down on the podium. Then the students laughed.
Class was back in. My lesson shot to hell, I had nothing to do but repeat the information that I gave in the first class. This time the class was much more responsive, and it was a lot more fun. It would be futile to try to stick to the original plan, so I improvised with some free-form conversation, and got a few people to talk.
Left with too little time for my plan and too much time to fill by myself, I dismissed the class 10 minutes early. Nobody moved. I repeated myself, and again, barely a ripple. This was the strangest class I had ever been in. I decided I might as well wander around the room and see if I could get some individual conversations going. Apparently they had a class in the same room the next period. Well, at least they weren’t just freakishly studious, because that would be weird.
The next class period (Geology students) went much better. Everyone showed up, and apparently the lesson plan turned out to actually be pretty decent. Two Truths and a Lie was still a bust, though. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.
(1) An empty room with wooden chairs. Still, better than a chairless room full of people, which China seems to be full of.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Strife
Life amongst the English teachers has smelled of a harmonious utopia, and I was getting sick of the bullshit. Tonight held its first touch of conflict. And it felt so good.
Monday was the day that we were handed our curriculum. Monday was the day that we found out that we had curriculum. For some, this was a weight off of their shoulders, but others felt shackled by the questionable vocabulary and farcical situations. Do grad students really want to learn how to navigate their way around a phone booth in English? When I first read through it, my first instinct involved lighter fluid and a match. It was so comprehensive and detailed (inanely restrictive) that I think a monkey could do a very good job teaching not very good English [sic]. I was chagrinned when Mr. Wang informed us that this book was the sole resource for the English competency exam.
Fast forward to today, when Grins and I were riding a turtle bus back towards our house. She was telling me how useless she thought the curriculum was. I agreed. She then told me how she would give a courtesy nod to the curriculum, but then teach something more interesting that would spark the students’ interest. I should have agreed. The nice thing would have been to agree. But I was sick of walking on eggshells.
Instead, I questioned if she was departing from the curriculum for her sake, or because she didn’t want to get bored. I asked her what she thought her students needed, and told her that I thought what they needed was to pass the test. I said that, being grad students, they already had four years of education where they had the opportunity to learn English if they had so desired. I said that, as a matter of integrity, we had an obligation to the students to prepare them for what they needed to succeed, even if that was not the most interesting or efficient way of teaching English. I said that, though it is a formality, and though there is a good chance that the grade people get on the competency exam will make little real difference (who is going to give a brilliant chemist a hard time because his English isn’t perfect?), that we couldn’t act on the assumption of the University waiving its own standards of competency. I said that to do so would be to gamble with other people’s future, and that would not be fair.
I wanted to say that it would be ludicrous to claim any real passion for “teaching English,” because if we wanted to lay any claim to the sanctity of the language, that we would have studied ESL in school. But I had already said enough.
The conversation spurted and spluttered after that like the flames from an empty gas canister. Eventually it was just easier to let it fade away into the darkness. I wondered if I should have held my tongue, but I was tired of homogeny. There can be no harmony when everyone is playing the same note. No one has expressed any frustrations about anyone else in the group, and many minor offenses had already been allowed to fly under the radar. It was more complicated with Grins and I, though. As the only two Christians in an outspokenly anti-Christian group, there was an unspoken expectation of camaraderie, the thought that “we need to hold the line for Jesus.” We were two very different people, but since we both love Jesus, we should always agree, right?
I now had a greater appreciation for the plight of teaching in America. What do we do when the standards by which our students succeed or fail run counter to their education? At the same time, what good does it do the student to be properly educated if they cannot advance? When do our lesson plans and aspirations become less about the needs of the students and more about our desire to be an ‘interesting teacher?’ On one hand, I agree with Grins, and I think we could teach this better were we given a looser leash. On the other, I think we need to play the hand that we are dealt with the players that we have been given. Namely, that we will be teaching a group of nominally interested graduate students who have a heavy and specialized course load, but who need to pass a general ed competency course based solely on the curriculum provided. I will be thrilled to be proven wrong, but that’s what it sounds like from people who know better than I.
Home was still fifteen minutes away, and there were a few attempts at small talk, but conversation was strained. By voicing disagreement, I had broken a taboo, and neither of us were sure how to get around it. I want to think that I provoked some thoughtful introspection, but I wonder if I might have just established myself as a soapboxing asshole. We walked the last five minutes without speaking, the wind whistling through the trees, mocking our silence.
Monday was the day that we were handed our curriculum. Monday was the day that we found out that we had curriculum. For some, this was a weight off of their shoulders, but others felt shackled by the questionable vocabulary and farcical situations. Do grad students really want to learn how to navigate their way around a phone booth in English? When I first read through it, my first instinct involved lighter fluid and a match. It was so comprehensive and detailed (inanely restrictive) that I think a monkey could do a very good job teaching not very good English [sic]. I was chagrinned when Mr. Wang informed us that this book was the sole resource for the English competency exam.
Fast forward to today, when Grins and I were riding a turtle bus back towards our house. She was telling me how useless she thought the curriculum was. I agreed. She then told me how she would give a courtesy nod to the curriculum, but then teach something more interesting that would spark the students’ interest. I should have agreed. The nice thing would have been to agree. But I was sick of walking on eggshells.
Instead, I questioned if she was departing from the curriculum for her sake, or because she didn’t want to get bored. I asked her what she thought her students needed, and told her that I thought what they needed was to pass the test. I said that, being grad students, they already had four years of education where they had the opportunity to learn English if they had so desired. I said that, as a matter of integrity, we had an obligation to the students to prepare them for what they needed to succeed, even if that was not the most interesting or efficient way of teaching English. I said that, though it is a formality, and though there is a good chance that the grade people get on the competency exam will make little real difference (who is going to give a brilliant chemist a hard time because his English isn’t perfect?), that we couldn’t act on the assumption of the University waiving its own standards of competency. I said that to do so would be to gamble with other people’s future, and that would not be fair.
I wanted to say that it would be ludicrous to claim any real passion for “teaching English,” because if we wanted to lay any claim to the sanctity of the language, that we would have studied ESL in school. But I had already said enough.
The conversation spurted and spluttered after that like the flames from an empty gas canister. Eventually it was just easier to let it fade away into the darkness. I wondered if I should have held my tongue, but I was tired of homogeny. There can be no harmony when everyone is playing the same note. No one has expressed any frustrations about anyone else in the group, and many minor offenses had already been allowed to fly under the radar. It was more complicated with Grins and I, though. As the only two Christians in an outspokenly anti-Christian group, there was an unspoken expectation of camaraderie, the thought that “we need to hold the line for Jesus.” We were two very different people, but since we both love Jesus, we should always agree, right?
I now had a greater appreciation for the plight of teaching in America. What do we do when the standards by which our students succeed or fail run counter to their education? At the same time, what good does it do the student to be properly educated if they cannot advance? When do our lesson plans and aspirations become less about the needs of the students and more about our desire to be an ‘interesting teacher?’ On one hand, I agree with Grins, and I think we could teach this better were we given a looser leash. On the other, I think we need to play the hand that we are dealt with the players that we have been given. Namely, that we will be teaching a group of nominally interested graduate students who have a heavy and specialized course load, but who need to pass a general ed competency course based solely on the curriculum provided. I will be thrilled to be proven wrong, but that’s what it sounds like from people who know better than I.
Home was still fifteen minutes away, and there were a few attempts at small talk, but conversation was strained. By voicing disagreement, I had broken a taboo, and neither of us were sure how to get around it. I want to think that I provoked some thoughtful introspection, but I wonder if I might have just established myself as a soapboxing asshole. We walked the last five minutes without speaking, the wind whistling through the trees, mocking our silence.
Friday, September 5, 2008
You Lie! You Can Read Characters!
“So would you like to buy a Chinese History movie? Your Chinese is good enough, you can definitely understand it!” Li Ningsheng is the owner of my preferred DVD shop, and this exchange is an old one.
“No, my Chinese is not yet good enough. I will just get lost in the old language. Maybe after I have had a few Chinese classes, then my Chinese will be good enough. I will stay with foreign movies for now.” Currently these consisted of Enchanted, Stardust, and Diehard 4. I’m a complicated person with complex tastes.
“Ah, yes, you may not understand the words or the sentences, but you will understand the meaning. In China, there are so many ways to say things that oftentimes, even I don’t understand a person’s words, but I understand the meaning. You shouldn’t get stuck on trying to understand what a person says. It is enough to know what they mean. You should rent a Chinese History movie.”
Great. Not even Chinese know what each other are saying. Awesome. He is being nice, and I doubt that he is as out of the lingual loop as he makes himself sound. This isn’t the only time I’ve heard something similar, and there is a certain amount of confusion as this “new China” has increased people’s mobility, bringing in different dialects and colloquialisms.
I enjoy talking with Le Ningsheng, mostly because he enjoys talking with me. As he says, “Talking with foreigners is a very enlightening experience!” He talks very quickly, and uses fairly complicated language, but I usually understand the meaning. Sigh. Sometimes, however, I notice a switch, and realize that he’s no longer talking to me, but to who he wants me to be.
It is actually pretty common. Though the city has become more jaded to foreigners over the past few years, I am still an aberration, an oddity. I am a white person with good Chinese skills, but whose skills have a definite and abrupt limit. The Chinese I know, I know well, and can speak fluidly with uncommonly good pronunciation. Unfortunately years of neglect have atrophied my Chinese, and it is not uncommon to quickly get beyond my depth, struggling just to keep my head on top of the conversation. There isn’t really a category to put me in, and so people tend to fall into one of two camps.
Some people, and thankfully an increasingly diminishing number, never get past that I am white. Everyone knows that waiguoren don’t speak Chinese, and so they don’t even bother trying to listen if I try to talk with them. Sometimes they will go so far as to tell me that they don’t speak English, which is not what you want to hear after an urgent inquiry as to the whereabouts of the nearest restroom.
More common are the people like Li Ningsheng, who, impressed by my Chinese, decide that it is near perfect, and any attempts on my part to claim ignorance are only false modesty. I was with a Chinese friend in one of the dorm buildings examining a large map of the campus. Wanting a good laugh, she asked me where her dorm was. Even though the map was in Chinese, I was easily able to trace the route and find her building. She was astonished, and asked about another building, and then another. It wasn’t a big map, and at the end, she came to the conclusion that I knew how to read characters, and had just been lying to her for the past two weeks. I hadn’t realized it until then, but she had still been struggling with how someone who spoke as well as I did could be so ignorant of the written language.
The same thing happened when I went with Shamrock to get assigned to a Chinese class. I hadn’t met these teachers before, and we handed them the slips from our boss that were supposed to get us placed in a class. The man in charge of the foreign students said the placement exam had been that morning, apparently it was our fault that we weren’t there. Even though we didn’t know. His subordinates were much more helpful, though, and were complimented me on my Chinese, then asked where we thought we should be put. I told them I spoke pretty well, but that I didn’t know any characters. They decided that I was being falsely modest, and gave handed me the placement exam to do on my own. It was two large sheets of characters. I couldn’t even read the instructions for what I was supposed to do. I smiled and handed it back to them. They say that I should just do it as best as I could. I told them I just had.
“No, my Chinese is not yet good enough. I will just get lost in the old language. Maybe after I have had a few Chinese classes, then my Chinese will be good enough. I will stay with foreign movies for now.” Currently these consisted of Enchanted, Stardust, and Diehard 4. I’m a complicated person with complex tastes.
“Ah, yes, you may not understand the words or the sentences, but you will understand the meaning. In China, there are so many ways to say things that oftentimes, even I don’t understand a person’s words, but I understand the meaning. You shouldn’t get stuck on trying to understand what a person says. It is enough to know what they mean. You should rent a Chinese History movie.”
Great. Not even Chinese know what each other are saying. Awesome. He is being nice, and I doubt that he is as out of the lingual loop as he makes himself sound. This isn’t the only time I’ve heard something similar, and there is a certain amount of confusion as this “new China” has increased people’s mobility, bringing in different dialects and colloquialisms.
I enjoy talking with Le Ningsheng, mostly because he enjoys talking with me. As he says, “Talking with foreigners is a very enlightening experience!” He talks very quickly, and uses fairly complicated language, but I usually understand the meaning. Sigh. Sometimes, however, I notice a switch, and realize that he’s no longer talking to me, but to who he wants me to be.
It is actually pretty common. Though the city has become more jaded to foreigners over the past few years, I am still an aberration, an oddity. I am a white person with good Chinese skills, but whose skills have a definite and abrupt limit. The Chinese I know, I know well, and can speak fluidly with uncommonly good pronunciation. Unfortunately years of neglect have atrophied my Chinese, and it is not uncommon to quickly get beyond my depth, struggling just to keep my head on top of the conversation. There isn’t really a category to put me in, and so people tend to fall into one of two camps.
Some people, and thankfully an increasingly diminishing number, never get past that I am white. Everyone knows that waiguoren don’t speak Chinese, and so they don’t even bother trying to listen if I try to talk with them. Sometimes they will go so far as to tell me that they don’t speak English, which is not what you want to hear after an urgent inquiry as to the whereabouts of the nearest restroom.
More common are the people like Li Ningsheng, who, impressed by my Chinese, decide that it is near perfect, and any attempts on my part to claim ignorance are only false modesty. I was with a Chinese friend in one of the dorm buildings examining a large map of the campus. Wanting a good laugh, she asked me where her dorm was. Even though the map was in Chinese, I was easily able to trace the route and find her building. She was astonished, and asked about another building, and then another. It wasn’t a big map, and at the end, she came to the conclusion that I knew how to read characters, and had just been lying to her for the past two weeks. I hadn’t realized it until then, but she had still been struggling with how someone who spoke as well as I did could be so ignorant of the written language.
The same thing happened when I went with Shamrock to get assigned to a Chinese class. I hadn’t met these teachers before, and we handed them the slips from our boss that were supposed to get us placed in a class. The man in charge of the foreign students said the placement exam had been that morning, apparently it was our fault that we weren’t there. Even though we didn’t know. His subordinates were much more helpful, though, and were complimented me on my Chinese, then asked where we thought we should be put. I told them I spoke pretty well, but that I didn’t know any characters. They decided that I was being falsely modest, and gave handed me the placement exam to do on my own. It was two large sheets of characters. I couldn’t even read the instructions for what I was supposed to do. I smiled and handed it back to them. They say that I should just do it as best as I could. I told them I just had.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Apologies...
I got back from my run this morning to find Shamrock and Grins eating French Toast. Apparently I had been invited by text, but was already running and didn't get the message. They graciously made a few more, and we talked a little bit about Chi Running (something that has come highly recommended and I'm trying to get into so as to save my knees, which already hate me). Ash joined a little later, and the conversation turned towards the pop culture that we were becoming increasingly isolated from. By the way, check out Elton John's tiff with Lilly Allen at the GQ awards. You watch it and can't really believe that it was actually happening. We moved to Youtube, which led to a morning of Youtube.
I am going to alienate myself from a lot of people here, but I have to admit that I don't really like Youtube. Occasionally, though, things come across that just really must be shared, and 'Yatta' is one such thing. I think my life may have just taken a turn for the awesomer. Here it is. Hopefully I will never post another Youtube video again. I guess I should warn you that it involves men in their underwear, but I think it would be a stretch to call it 'sexually explicit.' You may disagree, and if so, I apologize.
I am going to alienate myself from a lot of people here, but I have to admit that I don't really like Youtube. Occasionally, though, things come across that just really must be shared, and 'Yatta' is one such thing. I think my life may have just taken a turn for the awesomer. Here it is. Hopefully I will never post another Youtube video again. I guess I should warn you that it involves men in their underwear, but I think it would be a stretch to call it 'sexually explicit.' You may disagree, and if so, I apologize.
Crotch-o-Centric
(August 27th 2008)
This was the day that we were expecting to meet Mr. Wang, our boss, and I was eager to figure out the details of my new job. There was a knock on the door. I was in my preferred outfit, athletic shorts and sandals, and thought that I might want to be wearing something a bit … more … for the sake of a good impression. I put on normal human clothes, washed my hands, and then felt a drip on my toes. I looked down and saw a very awkward-looking spot (1) on my pants, right where you REALLY don’t want an awkward looking spot. In a country that looks for auspicious beginnings, this was not one of them.
After that, the day was pretty non-descript, and a little disappointing. We had an orientation meeting, but since three quarters of us had already spent some time here, it was a bit redundant. We also found out that we don’t technically have schedules yet. Shamrock says that they are trying to get bids from the various schools within the college, pimping us out for the highest bidder. At least we’ll know that wherever we end up teaching really wants us there.
We each went our separate ways for the afternoon, and then met back up for dinner at a hot pot restaurant. I think they wanted to impress us with how ‘foreign’ China is, and so they ordered the delicacies. We found ourselves dining on cow stomach (chewy) and duck intestines (non-descript). Oh yeah. And we also had cow …. er… bull … … man-parts. That’s right, I ate dong. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Chewy, but not bad.
Looking back, I apologize, a lot of this post seems to focus on the region between the knees and the navel, but seriously, this all happened in one day. That makes it OK, right?
(1) My sink hates me. Since it shares a faucet with the tub, it will oftentimes become the beneficiary of some shower water. Not to fear. It was apparently designed with this in mind, and there is a lip so the water doesn’t fall to the floor. Instead it sits on the rim of the sink, right at, you guessed it, crotch height. I almost wonder if some sadistic b-word found my information online and installed the sink so that it would be perfectly aligned with the area of my pants where I least want a water stain. If so, I would like to find him and kick him in his a-word. Oh yeah, I’m family-friendly.
This was the day that we were expecting to meet Mr. Wang, our boss, and I was eager to figure out the details of my new job. There was a knock on the door. I was in my preferred outfit, athletic shorts and sandals, and thought that I might want to be wearing something a bit … more … for the sake of a good impression. I put on normal human clothes, washed my hands, and then felt a drip on my toes. I looked down and saw a very awkward-looking spot (1) on my pants, right where you REALLY don’t want an awkward looking spot. In a country that looks for auspicious beginnings, this was not one of them.
After that, the day was pretty non-descript, and a little disappointing. We had an orientation meeting, but since three quarters of us had already spent some time here, it was a bit redundant. We also found out that we don’t technically have schedules yet. Shamrock says that they are trying to get bids from the various schools within the college, pimping us out for the highest bidder. At least we’ll know that wherever we end up teaching really wants us there.
We each went our separate ways for the afternoon, and then met back up for dinner at a hot pot restaurant. I think they wanted to impress us with how ‘foreign’ China is, and so they ordered the delicacies. We found ourselves dining on cow stomach (chewy) and duck intestines (non-descript). Oh yeah. And we also had cow …. er… bull … … man-parts. That’s right, I ate dong. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Chewy, but not bad.
Looking back, I apologize, a lot of this post seems to focus on the region between the knees and the navel, but seriously, this all happened in one day. That makes it OK, right?
(1) My sink hates me. Since it shares a faucet with the tub, it will oftentimes become the beneficiary of some shower water. Not to fear. It was apparently designed with this in mind, and there is a lip so the water doesn’t fall to the floor. Instead it sits on the rim of the sink, right at, you guessed it, crotch height. I almost wonder if some sadistic b-word found my information online and installed the sink so that it would be perfectly aligned with the area of my pants where I least want a water stain. If so, I would like to find him and kick him in his a-word. Oh yeah, I’m family-friendly.
On Names
A quick word on proper nouns. A lot of them will probably be made up. In some cases it might be a nod to privacy, in others it might be my way of telling a story rather than relating events. However, the overarching reason, and the one that will apply to all of my mis-namings is simply that it makes me smile. There you are, don’t get weirded out.
With that, I’m going to introduce you to my co-teachers. Briefly, and with the knowledge that they might one day read this.
Shamrock was named thus simply because he happened to be wearing a green shirt when I met him and looked like he would make a good, if oversized, leprechaun. Later on I found out that he actually was Irish, and felt a little guilty of racial profiling, but what the hey, it still is a funny name. He studied here two years ago, and then came back last year to teach, so this year will be his third year in China and his second year teaching. He is an affable character, and it seems that everywhere we go he is running into someone who he knows, or who at least knows him. I think that Shamrock’s day really starts the previous night in any of Beibei’s many bars, where he will then almost invariably make his plans with his friends for the next day. The amusing thing is that, since he spends most of his time on the streets, he speaks Chongqing Hua (the local dialect) very well, and though I can barely understand him, the locals can often understand him better than they can understand my putong hua (standardized Chinese). Humble pie never tasted so good.
Grins is a friend from Seattle, and she has the unfortunate distinction of being the only girl in our quartet. Kindof lame. She studied here for three months last year, and so has some rudimentary language skills and is well acquainted with where things are in the city. I tend to differ to these two, because though I have a better grasp of the language, they know the city much better than I do, and so I hang back until someone needs something translated.
Ash is perhaps the only true adventurer among us. Though being widely traveled in Europe, he has never been to Asia before, and so all things are new for him. The reason he is Ash is because he is tall and skinny like an ash tree. Oh, and he smokes. That may have something to do with it too. Anyone who is 6’4 and willing to light up when offered a cigarette is pretty much on the fast track to stardom here, so he’s set.
As for me, I think I’m calling myself Scout, not that I ever really refer to myself in the third person. But I’ll keep the name on the bench just in case.
With that, I’m going to introduce you to my co-teachers. Briefly, and with the knowledge that they might one day read this.
Shamrock was named thus simply because he happened to be wearing a green shirt when I met him and looked like he would make a good, if oversized, leprechaun. Later on I found out that he actually was Irish, and felt a little guilty of racial profiling, but what the hey, it still is a funny name. He studied here two years ago, and then came back last year to teach, so this year will be his third year in China and his second year teaching. He is an affable character, and it seems that everywhere we go he is running into someone who he knows, or who at least knows him. I think that Shamrock’s day really starts the previous night in any of Beibei’s many bars, where he will then almost invariably make his plans with his friends for the next day. The amusing thing is that, since he spends most of his time on the streets, he speaks Chongqing Hua (the local dialect) very well, and though I can barely understand him, the locals can often understand him better than they can understand my putong hua (standardized Chinese). Humble pie never tasted so good.
Grins is a friend from Seattle, and she has the unfortunate distinction of being the only girl in our quartet. Kindof lame. She studied here for three months last year, and so has some rudimentary language skills and is well acquainted with where things are in the city. I tend to differ to these two, because though I have a better grasp of the language, they know the city much better than I do, and so I hang back until someone needs something translated.
Ash is perhaps the only true adventurer among us. Though being widely traveled in Europe, he has never been to Asia before, and so all things are new for him. The reason he is Ash is because he is tall and skinny like an ash tree. Oh, and he smokes. That may have something to do with it too. Anyone who is 6’4 and willing to light up when offered a cigarette is pretty much on the fast track to stardom here, so he’s set.
As for me, I think I’m calling myself Scout, not that I ever really refer to myself in the third person. But I’ll keep the name on the bench just in case.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Big White Babies
As I write this, Mrs Niu is cleaning my apartment, as she will do once a week for the rest of the year. I was not expecting her, and so was a little out of sorts, but tried to help as I could, tidying up and generally trying to be active. When she saw what I was doing, she shooshed me away with a Chinese smile that radiated warmth but a glint in her eyes that brooked no objection. I don’t know if that was Chinese or just motherly… I think it might be a lot of both. So I retreated to my chair in the corner to read and inhabit as little as possible of the space that I was less and less considering mine.
It is a strange thing to sit down while another is doing your work for you. It chaffs my sense of propriety and seems to say unpleasant things about intrinsic human worth. To sit idly by is to acknowledge that you are being served, and imply that it is somehow right, that you – no, I – am somehow deserving of another’s subservience. Moreover, it makes me feel like a child. No wonder they see us waiguoren (foreigners) as children, incapable of civilized speech, whose writing tends to be large and sloppy, constantly asking ridiculous questions, and apparently, who can’t be trusted to clean their own apartments. Perhaps large, white, and oftentimes hairy, but children nonetheless.
Then a shift occurred in my thinking. As I lifted my feet so that she could mop under them, I started to wonder – really wonder – what she must think of me? What would it be like to live beneath (1st floor) such unequal and undeserved wealth? We each individually inhabit an apartment that she and her family consider themselves fortunate to live in (er… different apartment, same dimensions), our net salary (after housing) is roughly twice the average total salary of a local, and we are allotted enough electricity to make liberal use of the air conditioners that many similar apartments would not have. We are not rich because we are successful or have developed any unique skills (honestly, probably quite the opposite), we are rich because we are waiguoren, and that is the beginning and the end of it. Oh, and we have a maid service: Her. What must she think of us, the spoiled princes inhabiting the castle whose gates she guards and whose floors she cleans?
What am I to do? The question is suspended in the air like my feet over her mop, it is reflecting off of the newly mopped floors, it hums in the air conditioning. What am I to do about it? Were I to turn the AC off forever or lock the door the next time she comes to clean, who would it serve? Contrary to what mothers say, the babies in Africa don’t give a crap about whether or not we clean our plates, because our excess or lack thereof never touches them. It would be like rich man camping, spending thousands of dollars to abstain from any sense of comfort. To deny my wealth would not be an act of solidarity, but perhaps the worst insult possible. It would be to say that I have so much that I can afford to go without.
I fear that this train of thought can only lead me higher up onto a soapbox, and I wish to avoid that. Sometimes there aren’t any pat answers, no way to make sense of the world in comfortable terms. There is only the next conversation, the next fiscal decision, the next … whatever. And so as I finally lowered my feet to the glistening floor, I gave Mrs. Niu a quiet smile of heartfelt thanks, trying to convey as much gratitude as is possible without being creepy. Maybe I’ll try to find an excuse to leave her some thank-you cookies. I think she’d like that.
It is a strange thing to sit down while another is doing your work for you. It chaffs my sense of propriety and seems to say unpleasant things about intrinsic human worth. To sit idly by is to acknowledge that you are being served, and imply that it is somehow right, that you – no, I – am somehow deserving of another’s subservience. Moreover, it makes me feel like a child. No wonder they see us waiguoren (foreigners) as children, incapable of civilized speech, whose writing tends to be large and sloppy, constantly asking ridiculous questions, and apparently, who can’t be trusted to clean their own apartments. Perhaps large, white, and oftentimes hairy, but children nonetheless.
Then a shift occurred in my thinking. As I lifted my feet so that she could mop under them, I started to wonder – really wonder – what she must think of me? What would it be like to live beneath (1st floor) such unequal and undeserved wealth? We each individually inhabit an apartment that she and her family consider themselves fortunate to live in (er… different apartment, same dimensions), our net salary (after housing) is roughly twice the average total salary of a local, and we are allotted enough electricity to make liberal use of the air conditioners that many similar apartments would not have. We are not rich because we are successful or have developed any unique skills (honestly, probably quite the opposite), we are rich because we are waiguoren, and that is the beginning and the end of it. Oh, and we have a maid service: Her. What must she think of us, the spoiled princes inhabiting the castle whose gates she guards and whose floors she cleans?
What am I to do? The question is suspended in the air like my feet over her mop, it is reflecting off of the newly mopped floors, it hums in the air conditioning. What am I to do about it? Were I to turn the AC off forever or lock the door the next time she comes to clean, who would it serve? Contrary to what mothers say, the babies in Africa don’t give a crap about whether or not we clean our plates, because our excess or lack thereof never touches them. It would be like rich man camping, spending thousands of dollars to abstain from any sense of comfort. To deny my wealth would not be an act of solidarity, but perhaps the worst insult possible. It would be to say that I have so much that I can afford to go without.
I fear that this train of thought can only lead me higher up onto a soapbox, and I wish to avoid that. Sometimes there aren’t any pat answers, no way to make sense of the world in comfortable terms. There is only the next conversation, the next fiscal decision, the next … whatever. And so as I finally lowered my feet to the glistening floor, I gave Mrs. Niu a quiet smile of heartfelt thanks, trying to convey as much gratitude as is possible without being creepy. Maybe I’ll try to find an excuse to leave her some thank-you cookies. I think she’d like that.
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