Ni hao lao shi?

The halfway point of my teaching gig is fast approaching, which warrants an update on my trials and tribulations as an educator. I’m starting to adapt to life in the jungle, but it’s not necessarily getting easier. Never have I had a job where success is so intimately tied to preparation. The time I invest in assembling lessons directly correlates to whether or not I can create the illusion that I’m actually an experienced professional.

Also included in this equation is the quality, or lack thereof, of the textbooks I’ve been assigned to teach. The books I use for my 7th to 10th grade students are mostly useful, but the travashamockery of an educational device known as “New Concept English,” which I have been relegated to use with my 6 graders, should be cordially invited to a book burning party. It would be a disgrace even if it was written in the 1950’s, but unfortunately it was published as recently as 1997.

Tucked neatly amongst a surplus of Britishism laden lessons, such as “Sorry, sir” and “What make (car) is it?” are assortments of confusing, annoying, and offensive situations. For example, a few lessons feature an unusually busty French exchange student. I buried my shamed face in chalk encrusted hands on several occasions after subjecting my students to the audio tape featuring Sophie, and her equally ridiculous and inaccurate French accent.

“Ha eeh, mah eeh nay um eez Soh fee. Nigh us to meet yew.”

The list of grievances could proceed indefinitely, but several other egregious offenses come to mind. Actual quotes from the text, which are intended to be repeated by the students, include such gems as “Would you care for some whisky?” “How about a cigarette?” or “Let’s go have a drink. There’s a bar next to the station.” The epitome of the book’s message can be wrapped up in the following example. A lesson about opposites featured various images and captions, such as a dirty mechanic and a clean nurse. Corresponding with an image of a “busy hair dresser,” was a woman kicking back with her feat up, while a mountain of dirty dishes sits idly by the sink in the foreground. The caption is “lazy housewife.”

So, as the semester has progressed, I’ve shifted towards abandoning the book completely and creating my own lessons from scratch, which is far more time consuming, but less conscience crushing. The combination of terrible teaching materials and the inexhaustible energy of 12 year olds, who are trapped in the confines of the classroom from 7am to 7pm, make my 6th grade classes by far the most difficult.

Luckily, this age group has an incredibly long attention span when it comes to hangman. I’ve realized, in the thinking outside of the box which goes along with being in another country, hangman is a really strange and violent game to teach small children. Anyways, they love it, and wouldn’t mind if it consumed every available minute of class time. However, there is a growing league of saboteurs who are intent on seeing the helpless man perish, constantly guessing letters such as z, x, and q, followed by a chorus of giggles from fellow saboteurs when an appendage is added to our sacrificial stick man. So, you can imagine their disappointment when they accidentally succeeded in solving the word “crazy.”
Taming these swarms of “Bebe’s Kids” has taken a toll on my mental stability. Most folks find it hard to imagine me directing the energy of a large group of children, and rightfully so. My usual carefree attitude is incompatible with commanding a mass of ten-second attention spans. I’ve been able to step my game up, but it requires such a departure from my ordinary state of being that it completely drains my energy reserves. I’ve adapted my daily routine by including afternoon naps and occasional meditation to repair the resulting psychological dissonance (I guess that Psychology degree is finally paying off).

These kids do have one redeeming factor, which is the unconditional enthusiasm and adoration they express towards their lao shi. This is most often manifested in the incessant screaming of my name whenever they spot me on campus, which may be the easiest “Where’s Waldo?” the world has ever seen. Sometimes, they show hints of being wiser beyond their years, and they manage to reach me on a deeper level. In the lesson about opposites which featured the lazy housewife, I was able to at least teach them the difference between hot and cold, and clean versus dirty. As the lesson was winding down, I put myself in a vulnerable situation by asking several all or nothing questions, such as, “Am I fat or thin, tall or short, and most importantly, am I young or old?” I wasn’t really concerned about the first two, but given my recent realization about being almost a decade removed from high school, I had doubts about the potential responses to the final question. To my surprise, all 168 of the little ones emphatically agreed that I was young, which resulted in me rewarding them with wild praise and temporarily forgiving them for their past transgressions.

For the most part, my experience with the high school students has been much more relaxing. Despite being prone to dozing off in class, before being violently awoken by my fist against their desk, they become actively engaged when I present them with an interesting lesson. Lively discussions have revolved around such topics as how to meet a girlfriend in America, which was essentially a crash course in terrible pick up lines. These kids are all planning to make it to the U.S., so don’t be surprised or offended if a lightweight Chinese boy approaches you and asks if your feet are tired. If you don’t know the line that follows this question, I would suggest remaining in blissful ignorance.
In a completely unexpected turn of events, I had to break up a full blown fist fight in my 10th grade class. During an otherwise innocent game of poker, there was apparently some instigation going on in Chinese, which ended up spiraling out of control. It took exactly 2 seconds of having my back turned for all hell to effectively break loose. Reacting to the horrified looks on the faces of my other 8 students, I did a one-eighty to find the remaining two in the midst of exchanging some passionate haymakers. In hindsight, I ran a significant risk of getting caught in the crossfire, but I immediately entered the ring and managed to shut down the dueling hormone factories. I thought my reaction was swift, but not before plenty of blood had been shed, and a pair of glasses crushed and tossed out the window. I still haven’t figured out if this event was an indication of the increasing Americanization of China, the behavior of the spoiled little emperor generation, or some other outside force I have yet to comprehend.

My brief halftime conclusion is that everyone should experience being a teacher at some point in life. Standing on “the other side” provides a perspective that’s hard to grasp when your just one of many menacing faces behind a desk. It’s a constant challenge that’s about as comfortable as sleeping standing up, but it’s a guaranteed escape from monotony that provokes constant creativity. There have been rare days I’ve cursed my current profession, along with my present nation of residence, but usually by the time the weekend rolls around I look back at the week in a favorable light. Basically, my experience as a teacher is similar to being a Raiders fan for the last few years. I put up with a lot of bullshit, and constant disorganization, but when even the slightest things go well I celebrate like I’ve won the Super Bowl.