6.22.2008
6.19.2008
Weapon of Choice
I believe in some sort of mysterious harmony within athletics. There must be some unifying force (a kind of qi, perhaps?) that can defines the hidden beauty of sports.
My style is that of a very uncoordinated elephant after drinking too much coffee: bumbling. But at times my hand will strike out at the ball as it is falling, only two feet from the ground, and send it back to the opposite side of the table. With a flick of the wrist an ordinary return becomes something else: a slight advantage. Building upon these advantages slowly will yield an opportunity to smash the ball at such velocity that the opponent must turn in defeat and retrieve it.
My weapon of choice is the little known LiBaPai international paddle (2008-E) with dual-side standard rubber. I prefer using the smooth side, while all of my opponents choose the black (red seems to be a little more comfortable for some reason). This paddle is little known only on the college campus. It's probably the best known among primary schools and middle schools throughout China because it's one of the cheapest. At three dollars for a pair, walking out to the ping pong tables turns heads not because I'm a foreigner, but because even the students paid at least 4 times as much for their average paddles. One of the things that drew me in was the inlay on the handle. Look carefully and read backwards:
I hold the paddle differently since I came here. I hold it more like the traditional notion of how Chinese people would hold a ping pong paddle and, indeed, how most students at the college hold the paddle. In other words, I am completely out of style:
The more common grip involves a constant backhand return which is very awkward at first, but common in professional circles:
One of these days I'll get a video together of some very intense ping pong action.
6.18.2008
The Finer Things
I live in rural China. I’m not talking about an outhouse with a pig in the backyard, tramping up and down terraced rice paddies to buy my vegetables, but let’s say that things like bread, coffee, chocolate, pasta, cheese, real ice cream, vegemite, and peanut butter are luxuries. Some are nonexistent (vegemite and cheese), some have a degree of falsity (sugary bread, instant coffee, carob chocolate), and some are downright expensive (6 yuan for a Magnum ice-cream bar?).
I’m not trying to point my finger at anyone: I know that there are plenty of specialties Chinese people would have trouble finding in the United States. It’s just, there’s no reason for me to discuss which parts of a pig might not be waiting at the local Albertson’s.
Actually, the point is to bask in the things I do enjoy here. There are foods I’ve found that cannot go unmentioned because to do so would be kind of like forgetting to thank your friend for bailing you out of jail, especially if your friend fails to appreciate the intrinsic reward of helping to free you from what was obviously an unjust incarceration.
Topping the list without question is Dove Chocolate. In my neck of the woods, the closest thing to Dove is Mylikes Chocolate, which, as it turns out, my really don’t likes (the truth is, I don’t like Mylikes Chocolate for the very same reason that I don’t like candle wax). The extent which Dove Chocolate has captured my heart can be seen on my Peace Corps living allowance survey, where “chocolate parties” is listed under entertainment and the cost is too embarrassing to divulge here.
Dove Chocolate bars come in two different styles. I classify the styles as “flavors” and “stuffers.” Flavors include dark chocolate, chocolate, and white chocolate. Stuffers include a regular chocolate bar with “stuff” added. The stuff ranges from almonds and hazelnuts to little bits of coffee, depending on the label. Let me explain which kinds of chocolate I like by telling you the following: white chocolate is disgusting. If you eat white chocolate I genuinely feel sorry for you. No amount of early-age indoctrination could have convinced me that eating white chocolate is not a sin. The sanctity of chocolate has been ravaged by the perpetuated lie that white chocolate is actually chocolate. It’s like saying that broccoli is actually broccoli chocolate, then stepping back to wait for your children to eat it as they eye it distrustfully, except that broccoli actually doesn’t taste half as bad as white chocolate, especially broccoli with a little cheese, which I don’t have in Anshun. The invention of white chocolate has emboldened me to make outrageous claims like, “I can fly,” and when people question me skeptically I point at a white “chocolate” bar and say, “You let THEM get away with it!”
By now you probably guessed how I feel about Dove Chocolate bars “stuffed” with various nuts. In case you haven’t, these bars are a last-resort if the shelves are devoid of dark chocolate or regular chocolate. Even if this is the case, I belittle the chocolate bar the entire way home, to make sure it knows it’s not wanted. I do this aloud to further bolster my resolve against chocolates that are obviously embellishing delusions of grandeur. Besides, the addition of nuts or coffee chunks is a flagrant violation of “getting your money’s worth.” We could compare the price per pound of real Dove Chocolate (flavor: chocolate) to a pound of hazelnuts to get a better idea, but I’m still so angry at the persistent fraud of white “chocolate” that I can’t think clearly anymore.
I’m not trying to point my finger at anyone: I know that there are plenty of specialties Chinese people would have trouble finding in the United States. It’s just, there’s no reason for me to discuss which parts of a pig might not be waiting at the local Albertson’s.
Actually, the point is to bask in the things I do enjoy here. There are foods I’ve found that cannot go unmentioned because to do so would be kind of like forgetting to thank your friend for bailing you out of jail, especially if your friend fails to appreciate the intrinsic reward of helping to free you from what was obviously an unjust incarceration.
Topping the list without question is Dove Chocolate. In my neck of the woods, the closest thing to Dove is Mylikes Chocolate, which, as it turns out, my really don’t likes (the truth is, I don’t like Mylikes Chocolate for the very same reason that I don’t like candle wax). The extent which Dove Chocolate has captured my heart can be seen on my Peace Corps living allowance survey, where “chocolate parties” is listed under entertainment and the cost is too embarrassing to divulge here.
Dove Chocolate bars come in two different styles. I classify the styles as “flavors” and “stuffers.” Flavors include dark chocolate, chocolate, and white chocolate. Stuffers include a regular chocolate bar with “stuff” added. The stuff ranges from almonds and hazelnuts to little bits of coffee, depending on the label. Let me explain which kinds of chocolate I like by telling you the following: white chocolate is disgusting. If you eat white chocolate I genuinely feel sorry for you. No amount of early-age indoctrination could have convinced me that eating white chocolate is not a sin. The sanctity of chocolate has been ravaged by the perpetuated lie that white chocolate is actually chocolate. It’s like saying that broccoli is actually broccoli chocolate, then stepping back to wait for your children to eat it as they eye it distrustfully, except that broccoli actually doesn’t taste half as bad as white chocolate, especially broccoli with a little cheese, which I don’t have in Anshun. The invention of white chocolate has emboldened me to make outrageous claims like, “I can fly,” and when people question me skeptically I point at a white “chocolate” bar and say, “You let THEM get away with it!”
By now you probably guessed how I feel about Dove Chocolate bars “stuffed” with various nuts. In case you haven’t, these bars are a last-resort if the shelves are devoid of dark chocolate or regular chocolate. Even if this is the case, I belittle the chocolate bar the entire way home, to make sure it knows it’s not wanted. I do this aloud to further bolster my resolve against chocolates that are obviously embellishing delusions of grandeur. Besides, the addition of nuts or coffee chunks is a flagrant violation of “getting your money’s worth.” We could compare the price per pound of real Dove Chocolate (flavor: chocolate) to a pound of hazelnuts to get a better idea, but I’m still so angry at the persistent fraud of white “chocolate” that I can’t think clearly anymore.
Teacher Training: Chengdu (and reflections)
Last Friday I found myself, once again, packing my backpack for a trip to Chengdu. This would be my fourth trip back to my training site in the last 11 months: no small number considering the train ride is an overnight, 18 hour ride through the countryside. The journey itself can't be viewed in that context, however, because the scenery is an entire window away. Most of the trip is sitting through a smoke-filled train as people ignore the no smoking signs and light cigarettes. It is a hot, stuffy, torpid slog beset with gawking Chinese people muttering "Foreigner," to one another and smiling as if there was some big joke about the fact that my skin is a different color. Honestly, riding the train is all of these things. That is, unless there are other Peace Corps Volunteers riding with you (there were 3).
Our trip was a little more "What's new with you?" listening to long stories of adaptation and, eventually, what amounted to our acceptance that we had settled in - we were here at last. These trips are smoothed by the fact that we are together in this smoky cage; we are looking out for one another. This is the comfort that leads people in larger cities to become a part of the expatriate crowd, drawn to the easy expatriate lifestyle.
The training itself was to prepare several of the volunteers to help the new Peace Corps China volunteers who will arrive in early July. Each volunteer had selected a subject for the Peace Corps list for presentation. Todd and I will teach "Scarcity and Abundance - How to make the most with no resources or abundant resources." The range of resource availability probably matches that of future volunteers (from chalkboard and chalk to projector and computer).
The training was taxing, and on more than one occasion I found myself wondering when we would actually talk about our sessions with one another. While passing a rubber band with a straw in my mouth I thought, "This is a metaphor for working together, how interesting," before I began to analyze how the metaphor actually breaks down because it was obviously a strait-line activity which resembled top down command and delegation rather than teamwork. But my pessimism waned when the afternoon was dedicated to talking about our future sessions (how would we unify without repeating information, what were we going to teach, were there any suggestions?).
There were occasions when I argued with other volunteers. "Perhaps you should mention something about the different values related to materialism," I suggested.
"You mean how our students are so materialistic?" she asked.
"What?! No! How we are materialistic as Americans," I responded.
"Oh, I don't know about your students, but mine are very materialistic." she said.
And though I doubt that she has a true understanding of her own students when it comes to true materialism (especially when compared to any American), I do not doubt that there are differences between our colleges.
"Maybe you should consider talking to my site-mate, whose literature students don't speak English," I said to another volunteer presenting 'How to Teach Shakespeare in China.' Everyone laughed because they thought I was being funny.
"I'm not joking," I said. The room was quiet. They were embarrassed for me. Surely the students spoke English: how else would my site-mate teach them literature?
"I'd like to see that - I'm really interested in how she does that," he said.
I really do wonder if he cares, however. It seems that the people in larger cities have students who are able to do so much more. The attitudes are different. The levels of English are different. I found myself actually feeling jealous of their situations. I want to talk about the big questions. I'm tired of mundane conversations for practicing sentence structures. I felt left behind in my little corner of the world.
On the way home I pondered. I thought of all the time I've spent here. I thought of the frustrations and the successes. Wondering if I have been worthwhile to the students, the idea that my role is different that I originally thought is a recurring theme.
I haven't enjoyed teaching here like I did in America. Let me say this carefully: I have enjoyed it, but the rewards are so different. Often I have felt that the students look upon me as a teacher with a lack of experience (a death sentence in the Chinese classroom). My elementary experience is seen as not the same and there is a contingent of students who think the classes are boring (lately I have joined them - it's hard to get them motivated with a dated article from their textbooks about recycling).
My role has constantly changed, without changing at all. I have always been an English teacher, and things will remain this way until I return to America. My attempts to help people in Wenchuan, the area hit hardest by the May 12th earthquake, were met with a redirection by staffers in the Peace Corps office ("perhaps there is something a little closer to your site that you can help with"). And there was something - a flood just outside our city. I spoke with the foreign affairs official at my school and he said he would talk with someone higher-up. I have yet to hear back, despite repeated visits to his office to broach the subject. I am available to raise money and help the community, but there is not even a phone call after weeks of waiting. It goes back to the reason we are here, the reason that is cited again and again by Chinese officials: Just do your best to teach English. A message is being sent to me: stop bothering everyone with my desire to find another Chinese tutor (a request made more than 10 times since I began asking 7 months ago). Stop wanting to do anything else and just teach English.
But what if that's not going so well? I wonder to myself. I need something else because languishing in a sea of uninterested students and uninspired teaching is making me weary. The Peace Corps has 3 goals when they enter any country, and goals 2 and 3 have become my new favorite things. I cling to them relentlessly as I watch the school-year draw to a close.
I'm looking ahead to the fall: a new year with new students, new classes and new hopes. A fresh start.
Our trip was a little more "What's new with you?" listening to long stories of adaptation and, eventually, what amounted to our acceptance that we had settled in - we were here at last. These trips are smoothed by the fact that we are together in this smoky cage; we are looking out for one another. This is the comfort that leads people in larger cities to become a part of the expatriate crowd, drawn to the easy expatriate lifestyle.
The training itself was to prepare several of the volunteers to help the new Peace Corps China volunteers who will arrive in early July. Each volunteer had selected a subject for the Peace Corps list for presentation. Todd and I will teach "Scarcity and Abundance - How to make the most with no resources or abundant resources." The range of resource availability probably matches that of future volunteers (from chalkboard and chalk to projector and computer).
The training was taxing, and on more than one occasion I found myself wondering when we would actually talk about our sessions with one another. While passing a rubber band with a straw in my mouth I thought, "This is a metaphor for working together, how interesting," before I began to analyze how the metaphor actually breaks down because it was obviously a strait-line activity which resembled top down command and delegation rather than teamwork. But my pessimism waned when the afternoon was dedicated to talking about our future sessions (how would we unify without repeating information, what were we going to teach, were there any suggestions?).
There were occasions when I argued with other volunteers. "Perhaps you should mention something about the different values related to materialism," I suggested.
"You mean how our students are so materialistic?" she asked.
"What?! No! How we are materialistic as Americans," I responded.
"Oh, I don't know about your students, but mine are very materialistic." she said.
And though I doubt that she has a true understanding of her own students when it comes to true materialism (especially when compared to any American), I do not doubt that there are differences between our colleges.
"Maybe you should consider talking to my site-mate, whose literature students don't speak English," I said to another volunteer presenting 'How to Teach Shakespeare in China.' Everyone laughed because they thought I was being funny.
"I'm not joking," I said. The room was quiet. They were embarrassed for me. Surely the students spoke English: how else would my site-mate teach them literature?
"I'd like to see that - I'm really interested in how she does that," he said.
I really do wonder if he cares, however. It seems that the people in larger cities have students who are able to do so much more. The attitudes are different. The levels of English are different. I found myself actually feeling jealous of their situations. I want to talk about the big questions. I'm tired of mundane conversations for practicing sentence structures. I felt left behind in my little corner of the world.
On the way home I pondered. I thought of all the time I've spent here. I thought of the frustrations and the successes. Wondering if I have been worthwhile to the students, the idea that my role is different that I originally thought is a recurring theme.
I haven't enjoyed teaching here like I did in America. Let me say this carefully: I have enjoyed it, but the rewards are so different. Often I have felt that the students look upon me as a teacher with a lack of experience (a death sentence in the Chinese classroom). My elementary experience is seen as not the same and there is a contingent of students who think the classes are boring (lately I have joined them - it's hard to get them motivated with a dated article from their textbooks about recycling).
My role has constantly changed, without changing at all. I have always been an English teacher, and things will remain this way until I return to America. My attempts to help people in Wenchuan, the area hit hardest by the May 12th earthquake, were met with a redirection by staffers in the Peace Corps office ("perhaps there is something a little closer to your site that you can help with"). And there was something - a flood just outside our city. I spoke with the foreign affairs official at my school and he said he would talk with someone higher-up. I have yet to hear back, despite repeated visits to his office to broach the subject. I am available to raise money and help the community, but there is not even a phone call after weeks of waiting. It goes back to the reason we are here, the reason that is cited again and again by Chinese officials: Just do your best to teach English. A message is being sent to me: stop bothering everyone with my desire to find another Chinese tutor (a request made more than 10 times since I began asking 7 months ago). Stop wanting to do anything else and just teach English.
But what if that's not going so well? I wonder to myself. I need something else because languishing in a sea of uninterested students and uninspired teaching is making me weary. The Peace Corps has 3 goals when they enter any country, and goals 2 and 3 have become my new favorite things. I cling to them relentlessly as I watch the school-year draw to a close.
I'm looking ahead to the fall: a new year with new students, new classes and new hopes. A fresh start.
6.12.2008
Awkward Moments?
"What have been the most situations for you in China?" my new student tutor asked me in Chinese.
Hmmm...is now the time to express everything? Do I know him well enough? Should I tell him about how angry I get sometimes? The anger at some of the most stupid situations: the cutting in line, the rude people unaccustomed to foreigners to the extent of xenophobia, the people whose view of a foreigner is a little more along the lines of 'foreign devil' or even 'foreign friend' rather than just 'friend'? Let me start a little more gently, I decide.
"Well sometimes people call me a few hours before a meeting or event. It's very inconvenient and usually I don't go because I already have other plans. The person generally seems upset when I say I can't make it - that really bothers me."
"Is that all?" he asks, "anything else?"
The "hellos" at the back of my head? The children shouting 'foreigner' at me as if I were the antagonist in a scary folk tale about a foreigner that eats little Chinese kids? The cutting the cutting the cutting in line!? And do you want to know how I deal with this? I tell them to slow down! I yell at them: 'you relax and do everything else in your life slowly, so why does the sight of other people make you forget all of your manners and rush to trample me?'
No, no. Saying something else would be better.
"Sometimes Chinese people correct what I say, but instead of helping me, they correct everything. It takes me ten minutes to say 'where are you going?' with the proper tones, even though they would have understood me fine despite my poor pronunciation. I don't see the need for this constant correction, even if I say something imperfectly."
He nods his head, contemplating what I've said. I wonder if he's thinking along the same lines. I wonder if he knows how it feels sometimes. Maybe that's why he brought this up - maybe he's waiting to hear this. I decided not to talk about this, however.
The truth is, sometimes I do want to shout. Sometimes I feel like turning over tables and drawing a picture of a line of people and explaining how delayed gratification is received through the knowledge that consistency will win out. Sometimes I want to yell, "This is a society, not a fight for resources - aren't we beyond that!?"
I have never experienced such acute anger in my life. China has brought out some of the worst in me. In a way, China has pushed me a great deal.
And I've never been so thankful. The storm of emotional unpredictability, this torrent of negative emotions has helped me to better understand who I am and what I can endure. I know through and through the differences between China and America have reasons for their existence. I have learned that the culture is so different and so difficult to understand that personally, sometimes I must throw up my hands and make a rude comment.
None of this will prevent me from the realizing my deepest feelings: My love for and interest in China's remarkable culture. The people are different. Most of them, like any place in the world, are good. And while I will remain frustrated with so much, in my mind's eye I see future arguments with American friends as I defend the actions of the Chinese people and government. I see myself becoming upset with someone's arrogant, narrow view of Chinese culture and launching into a tirade about the fundamental differences between collectivism and individualism.
So when my tutor asks me about awkward moments, I know there have been plenty. But I am certain that they have been necessary: a hidden part of my unique education here. They are the many things I never expected when I came (though I expected adversity, I never knew specifics), and they are indelibly printed on my soul.
Hmmm...is now the time to express everything? Do I know him well enough? Should I tell him about how angry I get sometimes? The anger at some of the most stupid situations: the cutting in line, the rude people unaccustomed to foreigners to the extent of xenophobia, the people whose view of a foreigner is a little more along the lines of 'foreign devil' or even 'foreign friend' rather than just 'friend'? Let me start a little more gently, I decide.
"Well sometimes people call me a few hours before a meeting or event. It's very inconvenient and usually I don't go because I already have other plans. The person generally seems upset when I say I can't make it - that really bothers me."
"Is that all?" he asks, "anything else?"
The "hellos" at the back of my head? The children shouting 'foreigner' at me as if I were the antagonist in a scary folk tale about a foreigner that eats little Chinese kids? The cutting the cutting the cutting in line!? And do you want to know how I deal with this? I tell them to slow down! I yell at them: 'you relax and do everything else in your life slowly, so why does the sight of other people make you forget all of your manners and rush to trample me?'
No, no. Saying something else would be better.
"Sometimes Chinese people correct what I say, but instead of helping me, they correct everything. It takes me ten minutes to say 'where are you going?' with the proper tones, even though they would have understood me fine despite my poor pronunciation. I don't see the need for this constant correction, even if I say something imperfectly."
He nods his head, contemplating what I've said. I wonder if he's thinking along the same lines. I wonder if he knows how it feels sometimes. Maybe that's why he brought this up - maybe he's waiting to hear this. I decided not to talk about this, however.
The truth is, sometimes I do want to shout. Sometimes I feel like turning over tables and drawing a picture of a line of people and explaining how delayed gratification is received through the knowledge that consistency will win out. Sometimes I want to yell, "This is a society, not a fight for resources - aren't we beyond that!?"
I have never experienced such acute anger in my life. China has brought out some of the worst in me. In a way, China has pushed me a great deal.
And I've never been so thankful. The storm of emotional unpredictability, this torrent of negative emotions has helped me to better understand who I am and what I can endure. I know through and through the differences between China and America have reasons for their existence. I have learned that the culture is so different and so difficult to understand that personally, sometimes I must throw up my hands and make a rude comment.
None of this will prevent me from the realizing my deepest feelings: My love for and interest in China's remarkable culture. The people are different. Most of them, like any place in the world, are good. And while I will remain frustrated with so much, in my mind's eye I see future arguments with American friends as I defend the actions of the Chinese people and government. I see myself becoming upset with someone's arrogant, narrow view of Chinese culture and launching into a tirade about the fundamental differences between collectivism and individualism.
So when my tutor asks me about awkward moments, I know there have been plenty. But I am certain that they have been necessary: a hidden part of my unique education here. They are the many things I never expected when I came (though I expected adversity, I never knew specifics), and they are indelibly printed on my soul.
Dou (pronounced "dough") - 4th tone.
The first time someone used this word when talking with me they also pointed to their cheek. I immediately went into language survival mode, scrambling for context and meaning. "Nose? I have something in my nose? No? An eyelash? Yeah, I know it's jiemao, but what are pointing at, exactly?" The only thing that's changed is that I don't ask questions anymore; I know the meaning. Students will still point and say "dou."
Chinese people are amazing at making your business their own; they are looking out for you and trying to help. When I realized that the meaning of "dou" was "pimple," however, I wondered about the nature of their concern. It's common to hear this from my students, the only prerequisite being, well, a pimple. I have heard this so much that I'm rather accustomed to it now.
The other day one of my students asked me how to say "dou" in English. I said that there were several ways: "Pimple," "zit," "boil," well...you get the idea. I thought about it for a moment and then explained something to the student (something that probably saved the student from an awkward moment of my cross-cultural rage). I said that there were indeed several ways to say "dou," but that I preferred to hear "dou" because the word was firmly within a Chinese context. I don't know how often I would be able to hear, "You have a zit on your face," before I would just snap. "You have a dou" sounds so much nicer, don't you think? Actually, after being immersed in this culture, it sounds almost NORMAL.
Chinese people are amazing at making your business their own; they are looking out for you and trying to help. When I realized that the meaning of "dou" was "pimple," however, I wondered about the nature of their concern. It's common to hear this from my students, the only prerequisite being, well, a pimple. I have heard this so much that I'm rather accustomed to it now.
The other day one of my students asked me how to say "dou" in English. I said that there were several ways: "Pimple," "zit," "boil," well...you get the idea. I thought about it for a moment and then explained something to the student (something that probably saved the student from an awkward moment of my cross-cultural rage). I said that there were indeed several ways to say "dou," but that I preferred to hear "dou" because the word was firmly within a Chinese context. I don't know how often I would be able to hear, "You have a zit on your face," before I would just snap. "You have a dou" sounds so much nicer, don't you think? Actually, after being immersed in this culture, it sounds almost NORMAL.
6.09.2008
Campus Building Attendants
Just inside of each building on campus is a small room. This room is generally used as an apartment by the custodian of that building. In the English department, a husband, wife, and young child live in the room. If I study in the English building during the evening I can smell them cooking dinner. The husband and wife are in charge of cleaning the building (sweeping and mopping common areas), stocking coal, and keeping it locked up during the night. Typically I see the wife cleaning the building, though yesterday the husband was mopping the English office. They will refill the thermos station each day so that teachers have no end of hot water for their tea mugs. Once the wife went out of her way to help me light a fire in the stove during winter; I had piled too many chunks of coal inside the stove before letting the sticks burn long enough.
I often see the husband at the gate. He is in a pseudo-police officer's uniform making sure that only authorized vehicles enter the school grounds. Usually the small office next to the gate is staffed by 2-4 people who are chatting, drinking tea, and smoking cigarettes. When they talk to me I don't understand because their dialect is so thick that even "Where are you going?" sounds a bit like, "Wiya yoo goan."
The son goes to school during the day, but I often see him running around campus with a large stick or something else he has procured from the trash-filled pond. Sometimes he will enter a class when it's not in session and cause trouble. To practice my Chinese I try to have lengthy conversations with him, but usually I only discover that he has just eaten or that he does, indeed, like kites. The students in the building are his temporary family, and the culture expects that when the parents aren't in the immediate vicinity (maybe they're cleaning or on duty nearby) that the students will take a hand in watching the child.
If I'm studying in a classroom he will come over and look at my flashcards and Chinese book. He searches through my materials, digs through my bag until he finds what he is looking for: an orange. He gives it to me and waits, staring as I peel it. In America I would ask his mother or father first, but he is hungry, an orange is healthy, and, actually, I am his parent for the time being. I send him after a garbage can and he obliges, dragging it across the room despite the fact that it is very light. "Pick it up!" I say in a stern, forceful Chinese. He carries it over and begins putting the peels in the can as I divide the orange.
I often see the husband at the gate. He is in a pseudo-police officer's uniform making sure that only authorized vehicles enter the school grounds. Usually the small office next to the gate is staffed by 2-4 people who are chatting, drinking tea, and smoking cigarettes. When they talk to me I don't understand because their dialect is so thick that even "Where are you going?" sounds a bit like, "Wiya yoo goan."
The son goes to school during the day, but I often see him running around campus with a large stick or something else he has procured from the trash-filled pond. Sometimes he will enter a class when it's not in session and cause trouble. To practice my Chinese I try to have lengthy conversations with him, but usually I only discover that he has just eaten or that he does, indeed, like kites. The students in the building are his temporary family, and the culture expects that when the parents aren't in the immediate vicinity (maybe they're cleaning or on duty nearby) that the students will take a hand in watching the child.
If I'm studying in a classroom he will come over and look at my flashcards and Chinese book. He searches through my materials, digs through my bag until he finds what he is looking for: an orange. He gives it to me and waits, staring as I peel it. In America I would ask his mother or father first, but he is hungry, an orange is healthy, and, actually, I am his parent for the time being. I send him after a garbage can and he obliges, dragging it across the room despite the fact that it is very light. "Pick it up!" I say in a stern, forceful Chinese. He carries it over and begins putting the peels in the can as I divide the orange.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
