Chaling, by Avi Kramer

We land in Beijing at 5:25 a.m. and soon the sun is steaming through the clouds.  We get our bags and find the gate for our connecting flight to Changsha.  On the plane, I sit next to an old couple whose heads don’t reach the headrests.  They share a blue airline blanket and almost disappear in it and their features are small and sharp, their skin is dark and wrinkled, and it looks like they have grown to look the same.  The man forcefully pushes the seat in front of him forward so his wife can get to the aisle.  Another volunteer sits across the aisle from me—we met in the airport while transporting our luggage and trying to avoid the sketchy men wanting to carry our bags and get us to pay an “airport tax” at an unmarked counter.  Now she is curled up in a blanket, her ears plugged by an iPod, and she is crying.  It’s not easy to do what we’re doing. 

We are sixty volunteers here to teach spoken English, and amidst everything going on—a world that comes at us through newspapers and computer screens and is endlessly filled with problems and sadness—we just have to trust that we are doing something worthwhile.

Jet-lagged, ragged with travel and the new surroundings, I return to the hotel after our first dinner in Changsha.  My roommate and I discuss the lousiness of Tsingtao beer, and he tells me that “the coolest kid from philosophy camp always talked about how Pabst Blue Ribbon was named the best beer in America in 1892.”  The next day, the first of orientation, we are briefed on aspects of Chinese culture that might be new to us; the first, and most immediate, being squat toilets.  My roommate, another gem of a comment, “yeah I know all about that because at sleep- away camp we had to squat in the woods.”

The street from the Ya Hua Hotel to Changsha Number One Middle School is narrow and currently sidewalk-less.  The 112 bus bombs down the middle while Fiat taxis cut in around bikers and umbrella-covered food vendors.  The alleys smell of rancid water, sweat, and oil frying unsweetened donuts, meat pancakes and “stinky tofu”.  There is a force of older men in high-waisted slacks working shirtless in the early morning packing sand dust and rectangular stone slabs to form the new sidewalk.  Some work with a bamboo rod stretched across their upper back carrying buckets of wet concrete suspended from each end while others sit on their haunches and watch the events of the street, the ash from their cigarettes blowing away in the wind.  I have no idea who employs them, there is no boss or overseer, they just work all day.  These are the men building this booming country, on nameless side-streets in unknown cites, on rudimentary scaffolding alongside green-tarp-covered skyscrapers boasting slogans like “an undertaking of great and insurmountable importance.”  A man sits on an upturned brick and drinks beer from the bottle with his 7 a.m. noodles and answers his cell-phone that announces the call with Beethoven’s Fifth.

On a free morning during orientation, I run on the track at the middle school.  The school’s team starts to arrive as I’m running, and the boys are stretching while watching me and laughing.  As I come around a turn, one of them takes off behind me and runs right on my shoulder, so I push the pace.  To be honest, I’m not too happy about this.  I came here for a relaxing Sunday run, away from the thousands of people packing Martyrs’ Park to do tai chi, play badminton, walk their caged birds or practice ballroom dancing.  So, incidentally, someone nudging into my space is getting on my nerves.  I speed up a little more, but his breathing behind me doesn’t labor.  Soon, the whole distance group has joined in, and we’re whipping around the track now, the pace dropped to 5:30 or so per mile.  They run shirtless, their torsos muscular and glistening with sweat, and they hang in for ten minutes or so before jogging off to the side.  I continue on and afterwards share handshakes with them and ask the coach about their training.  While we ran, he sat on the side, spitting betel-nut juice and typing text messages.

I’ve run in many bizarre places in the world: along the Straight of Magellan, on a highway in the Midwest, beside the Dead Sea, around a horse track in Santiago, Chile, through broken-down colonial towns in Nicaragua.  And no matter where I am, there are dogs lurking close by just waiting for a chance to take a big bite out of my exposed calves.  They come out of nowhere, a jolting cacophony of barking and scratching paws, and I always feel like a cartoon character bolting away and leaving a poof of dust and a pair of sneakers.  Until now, that is, because the dogs in China, incredibly, have achieved some kind of Eastern mind-body equilibrium and peacefulness.  They are enlightened beings.  I run by, and they do nothing but regard me like “hmm, what do you know, look at that” then lower their heads to their paws and go back to sleep or trot along in search of their next meal.

I am here in Chaling city, Zhuzhou county, Hunan province, China.  Over twenty hours by train from Beijing.  Picture this: the round, tan bottom of a toddler, his pants around his knees as he pees onto the sidewalk.  It is almost too hot to move.  A woman in barefeet sorts scallions on the same concrete next to a cage of soon-to-be-eaten frogs while a boy in sandals scrubs a tub of crabs with a brush and sells snakes from a bucket.  He takes them one by one by the tail and swings each, smacking their heads against the ground to kill them before placing them in a plastic bag for someone’s dinner.  All around there are motorcycles weaving through traffic, the trucks’ blaring horns and their black exhaust sticking in the air, the afternoon temperatures increasing, the pee trickling along the sidewalk, the smell of fresh blood from the wet market around the corner, firecrackers like gun shots in front of the newly opened bakery, the billowing smoke, the loudness of life and people swarming in every direction.  When it gets to be too much, when the man next to me on the bus is blowing his nose in the aisle for the tenth time, I close my eyes and force a smile and hum “You Are My Sunshine.”

I have settled in to teaching at my school in Chaling.  Surrounded by poor farming villages; it is a city made up of two commercial streets and that’s it, and people four hours north in Changsha don’t even know it exists.  I am observing one of my Chinese colleagues give an English lesson.  She instructs her students to begin a short story with “Once upon a time…” the way, she says, all stories in English begin.  I wonder if these students are the future jaded twenty-year-olds playing violent computer games and chain-smoking cigarettes in black, smoked-out internet bars.  Will my students do well enough on the college entrance examination, the be-all and end-all in their quest for higher education, to enter university in Changsha and maybe make it out of Hunan, as so few do, to a higher-paying job in Shanghai or Beijing?  Or will their scores not be high enough and will they decide—instead of waiting one year to take the exam again—to ship themselves off to Guangdong for years of living and working in a factory, far away from their families, where they will make the clothes and electronics worn and used by the rest of the world?  Where do they exist between the grime of the streets and the starched white tablecloths in the restaurant of the high-rise hotel where a table of alpha males, government officials and school administrators, toast their power and exceptionalness over bottles of liquor that cost half of a teacher’s monthly salary?  I have students who are dropped off in Mitsubishi SUV’s while most have holes in their sneakers and can only afford a wind-breaking jacket during the bone-chilling winter months.

Every day, seven days a week, the students must be on the track for their morning exercises.  All the head teachers must be there as well to monitor their class, and the headmaster runs in baby steps around the basketball court next to the infield of the track while circulating four steel balls in his two palms like Lawrence Fishburne in “Boyz in the Hood.”  He points and shouts at the students who are sleepily lagging behind while a P.E. teacher stands on the stage along track and grunts into the microphone like a drill sergeant.  As they run their laps, when each class comes around to the stage, they must chant their military credo in unison.  In a country bursting at the seams with people, there is competition for everything, and these students are always pushed towards greater efficiency and accomplishment, to get any edge they can.  After running, it’s go time, every minute of their day is scheduled until the last study hall ends at ten o’clock at night.

My students have never seen someone not of the Han ethnicity, not even a Chinese minority.  Eight months into the year they still sometimes look at me like they can’t believe I really exist.  The good students, of course, don’t need monitoring, but the boys in the back of the classroom sleep or play with their pocket dictionaries which I confiscate every five minutes.  But they perk up with the mention of music or the NBA.  On this day, they want me to teach them Backstreet Boys (Hou Jie Nan Hai) songs.  They’ve never heard of Madonna, 50 Cent, or The Beatles, and I hope it doesn’t break their hearts when I tell them I don’t know any Backstreet Boys songs and ask, aren’t the Backstreet Boys like fifty years old now?  They stare at me, expressionless, so I tell them the group is now called the Backstreet Old Men (Hou Jie Lao Ren) and my poor tonal pronunciation gets them erupting in laughter. 

We are together so much—in the classroom, on the basketball court, huddled up in an English corner, each a short respite from the barrage of pressure that makes up their everyday.  It’s to give our time in this way, to be challenged each day in front of classes of seventy, to meet and befriend and remember individuals in this 4,000-student school, to give them their first introduction to other people of the world.  And they will remember me.

Selected as First Place, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest.

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My eyelids flutter as I struggle to wake myself.  It is about 8:00 a.m., earlier than normal, but the sounds drifting through my open window indicate the rest of China has still managed to greet the day ahead of me.  As I lay awake under the cool sheets of my bed enjoying the unlikely harmony of chirping birds and screeching car horns, I can hear something special on the breeze – a child laughing.  Today, like each day here in the People’s Republic of China, is sure to be unique.

A quick shower in my utilitarian washroom helps jolt my senses awake.  The water feels refreshing as it trickles down my toes, across the blue and white tile floor, and into the nearby squat toilet, a fixture that had me in tears the first day in my new apartment.  In time, though, I came to appreciate the functionality and reliability of this distinctive device, and eight months later, I love the ease with which it can be cleaned.

Now dressed in a lightweight shirt and slacks, I eye the community vegetable garden behind my apartment building through the open curtains of my bedroom window.  Resembling a patchwork quilt, the area is divided into plots of land for different people to cultivate, dotted with veggies of all varieties and colors.  A man, who seems to be dressed for an interview in black trousers and a suit jacket, is squatting in one of the middle sections picking cabbage. 

The morning air feels cool, but the bright sun and the layer of grey smog blanketing the city, an ever-present reminder of China’s numerous factories, promise higher temperatures to come.  I grimace at the thought of both the pollution and the idea of wearing a suit in the heat of the day.  It’s continually shocking to me that people here are able to bear the heat and humidity of Hunan’s subtropical climate dressed as such.  Likewise, a few months ago, as the mercury plummeted, I felt a similar amazement at the lack of winter clothing on those around me.  The resilience of my Chinese neighbors can be seen even in these small ways.

In my cozy, white-tiled kitchen, I pour freshly boiled water over the tea leaves waiting in my mug and head to my computer to read the news online.  Though I’ve always been a coffee fiend, I’ve come to enjoy the subtle and slightly bitter flavor of yinzhen cha (silver needle tea), one of China’s renowned teas indigenous to the nearby Junshan Island. 

Enjoying the comfort of my morning routine, I finish my tea and the morning headlines before grabbing my black, nylon shoulder bag and heading out the door to school.  As I emerge from the large, communist-style, concrete box that houses myself and the other teachers here at Ba Zhong (#8 Middle School), I can hear the hum of the students in the teaching building just a few meters away.  The school bell resonates from the crackling speakers above and students begin spilling out of their classrooms.  I find myself amid a swarm of blue and white track suits, the school’s uniform.  Making my way up the three flights of stairs to my office, I maneuver through oncoming traffic, smiling and waving to kids shouting my name or greeting me with the ubiquitous, “hello!”   

Once in my office, I heave my bag onto my desk and continue to the window, surveying the scene below.  During the fifteen minutes between lessons, the students run wild, enjoying the newly turned warm weather while they lick green tea flavored ice cream bars, nibble fresh pineapple, or sip milk tea.  From my third floor window, I watch the children in the courtyard below, a space that separates the Junior students (those 12 to 14 years old) on the southern side and the Senior students (those 15 to 17 years old) on the north.  Students chase one another around the luscious, deep green shrubbery decorated with pink and white blossoms.  A group of girls walk hand-in-hand near the faux waterfall, as water cascades from it into the concrete pools below.  Two boys seem to be mimicking China’s popular export, kung fu, as they leap off the arched bridge in the middle of the pond.  As the two-minute warning bell rings, I relinquish my window seat, gather my materials and trot back down the stairs toward my first class. 

By the time I reach the classroom, the students have reassembled, and the room is full.  Seventy-six young faces gaze back at me as I stand at the blackboard.  Today’s lesson is focused on pronunciation.  The sound of nearly 80 students chanting English words can seem both monotonous and deafening, but their pronunciation of more difficult sounds, like ‘th’ and ‘r,’ improves with repetition.  We continue, though I must routinely remind them to be quiet and keep my eye out for sneaky students with MP3 players.  The class quickly livens up when we begin playing a game to practice their pronunciation; it seems a friendly competition can make nearly anything interesting.  The class ends too early for most of the students, and I feel pleased at the increased confidence I see in the class. 

At the bell, the students again tumble from the classrooms and race toward the school gate.  It is lunchtime now, and the students have nearly three hours to eat, rest, and relax before heading back to their classrooms for several more hours of lessons.  I follow the masses out the guard station and make my way across the narrow street.  Inside my favorite restaurant, I order xi hong shi chao dan (a fried tomato and egg dish) with rice and take a seat on a plastic stool at one of the small tables.  The cook and his wife are the only two employees at this small shop.  While they are busy filling orders, I entertain their toddler son with a game of peek-a-boo. 

Enjoying my freshly prepared meal, I watch the comings and goings of those around me.  The cook finishes preparing chao mian (fried noodles) for a group of students, who then take this authentic Chinese take-out back to their classrooms and resume their studies.Since many of the students at Ba Zhong live on campus in dormitories, the neighborhood is full of restaurants and vendors tailored to their desires.Indeed, life for many of these students more closely resembles a highly structured college environment rather than the typical U.S. middle school or high school. 

After finishing my lunch, I wander through the neighborhood to the local wet market.  Located in a dim alleyway, the place seemed a bit dodgy to me at first.  Since then, I’ve become accustomed to the strange stench that accompanies the tables of fruits, vegetables, and meats.  Passing the butchers’ stands near the entrance, I notice piles of pig’s tails and feet and rows of dried meat, sausage, and whole chickens.  I decide to pick up some potatoes, cauliflower, and apples.  Then, I pay 16 yuan (about US$2) for the food and head back to the school. 

My afternoon is filled with papers to correct and grades to record.  However, visitors arrive in my office between classes.  I’ve organized a make-shift library, where students can check out some of my American magazines and English books.  While they browse these treasures, I chat with them about school or their families.  It’s my favorite time of the day because I seem to learn something new from each student.  One student, Laurence, comes to chat regularly and has become a good friend.  Over the months, I’ve seen his English improve and his confidence sky-rocket.  Today, I listen as Laurence talks about his upcoming exam.  He’s nervous and explains his anxiety about letting his parents down.  Combined with the rigorous examination system mandated by the Chinese government, China’s one child policy seems to put considerable pressure on students like Laurence, and I listen intently as he speaks of his fears.  Though there’s little I can do to ease his mind, I am pleased he feels comfortable confiding in me, and I assure him that I believe he can do well.

As my afternoon comes to a close, I leave my office and walk back to my apartment.  It’s nearly 5:30 p.m., and many students are leaving for dinner or playing a quick game of basketball on the court outside.  They will return in just an hour for further lessons and self-study until the closing bell rings from the school speakers at 9:45 p.m.  After that, the students are finally allowed to vacate the school for the day. 

At home, I change into casual clothes and walk down the street to meet Austen, a friend and fellow WorldTeach volunteer, for dinner.  It’s a short walk to the restaurant for me, and I pass hordes of tables on the sidewalks along the way.  The agreeable weather has brought people from inside the nearby restaurants out to the sidewalk.  Families and friends sit in groups around plastic covered tables, conversing in rapid staccatos and eating peppery, barbecued fish and meats, Yueyang’s speciality, or nibbling on “tasty shrimp,” a spicy Hunanese dish with a fiery sauce.  Not far down the road, street vendors are selling another Hunan favorite, “stinky tofu.”  Though I have heard from many locals that this is a delicacy, it is truly an acquired taste because I still can’t get past its pungent and disagreeable aroma.

At the restaurant, I greet the lao ban (boss) warmly and make my way to the same table I sit at every time I eat here.  In a few minutes, Austen arrives and we order our typical fare: sweet and sour pork, cabbage, and egg fried rice.  Armed with chopsticks, we dig in the moment the food arrives, washing it all down with a bottle of Xinhua beer.  We discuss our classes, lessons, and plans for the upcoming weekend.  It’s nice to have the companionship and to be able to speak English to someone, knowing they understand entirely.  Having finished our food, we sit drinking lu cha (green tea) and playing cards; it’s a nice, relaxing way to end the day. 

After bidding Austen zai jian (goodbye), I walk back to my apartment under the glow of China’s ample neon lights.  Turning the key to my door, I’m greeted by familiar surroundings.  I’m home, a place I never would have thought could bring such comfort.  Moments later, I am crawling into bed.  Nestling under the blankets, I relish in their warm, inviting texture against my skin.  I can hear music playing from the nearby park where men and women go to practice their talents: calligraphy, singing, red fan dancing, tai chi, and playing the erhu and other traditional Chinese instruments.  As I listen to the symphony of croaking frogs outside my window, I remember the laughing child from this morning.  Perhaps there is no better sound to represent my experience in China.  Like laughter, life in China is always different and always special.

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest.

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During WorldTeach orientation training, the term “culture shock” was tossed around a lot.  “People here will say and do things differently than you are used to,” they told us.  “Try to remember that there is often no ‘right way’ to do things.” 

I, the seasoned traveler--clad in my three-in-one zip pants as if we were going on safari instead of sitting in a hot classroom in China--looked around the room with what I hoped was an effective dose of “been there done that.” Most of my fellow volunteers were napping, but some were eagerly taking down notes. I figured I had the ones who would not finish their contracts pegged.  We all were frantic, but they were the ones who made no effort to conceal it with faux seasoned nonchalance. 

I felt as if I were ready for whatever culture shock China had in store for me.  Better yet, I was open to it. I think it helps to have a goal; mine was to pick up as much Mandarin as possible and have a good experience with the kids.  (I was recovering from a rough year working with inner city kids in Memphis and feeling a little ineffectual). 

After a month of training in the big city, I arrived at my placement site, a tiny hamlet on a dirt road on the outskirts of Changsha.  I immediately fell in love with the dust and the muck; with the smells and squawks coming from the tiny wet market where, every morning, farmers brought their wares to sell; and with the hiss of hot oil in woks coming from the tiny restaurants where the laobans fried up jiao zi and fresh vegetables.  All around were little farms heading out into the countryside.  It was a self-sustained little world, complete with a hair salon, blacksmith, hardware store and clinic, why would you ever need to venture into the big city? 

In my first five months, I diligently studied the language and carefully prepared for my classes.  The kids were fantastic, smart and inquisitive, and I felt great.   And as for culture shock, I took the snot rockets and lougies being coughed up on the bus next to me in stride. I was unfazed by the fact that my office co-workers were rather close talkers, and that their breath smelled like the betel nut that they constantly chewed. If I happened to crave western food, I took the bus two hours to a German chain store to buy spaghetti sauce and olive oil.  Once, I saw a mother in the store holding her baby while he did his business in aisle six.  Even this little slice of “the West” was not immune to China’s charms.   I approached it all with gusto.  Good for them, thought I. No need to throw that trash in a trash bin, the street is fine; it will degrade faster in the bright sunshine. Sure you can hang that pig head, testicle, or dog tail here, and good for you for using the entire animal.  No need to wear gloves when removing that dead bird from my classroom, it’s faster just to pick it up with your hands. Of course you have to push to get onto the bus, there are forty people waiting at this stop and the next one won’t be around for thirty minutes. 

I decided that that which divides us is much smaller than that which unites us.  People everywhere are essentially the same, they want to work hard, get ahead, and take care of their families. I live in an apartment with running water, a computer, a television (that I can't understand, but still). Is it really so different from life in America?

In reality, culture shock is a much more nuanced thing. It is not so much what you have or don't have, but rather how people think about things, how they approach social relationships, work, and family, and how that approach is different from how you might think about these things, and how these assumptions can lead to misunderstandings.

I had not been in China long enough to experience this more nuanced culture shock, when a malady of a different sort struck.  I had been warned about it almost in passing, a little thing called “reverse culture shock.” 

“When you return to America, you might feel something called ‘reverse culture shock.’  It can manifest itself as a feeling that you no longer belong in a place that used to be home; that the once familiar is now unfamiliar.” At the time, this idea seemed absolutely absurd to me, but five months later, on vacation in Hong Kong, I decided that it went something like this: 

When you get on the train to Shenzhen (which, like Hong Kong, is in the Special Administrative Region) and it's really clean and bright, don’t “ooh” and “ahh” too much and touch all the shiny surfaces.  When you get to your sleeping compartment and your sheets are clean and white and don’t smell like mold like your bed at home, don’t spend too much time sniffing them.  You can’t throw your peanut shells on the floor when you’re done eating, as has become your style, because the floors are carpeted and there are trash bins (trash bins!!) on the ground for these things.  Even though you've picked up a bit of a sore throat and cold and are running low on tissues, you can't just deal with your excess phlegm on the train floor (again, the carpeting and waste baskets).   When you get tired, which will happen around 8:30, remember that big city folks stay up later, so you ought not strip down to your skivvies while the lights are still on after burping your fill of dinner.  And when you can’t figure out why it’s hard to fall asleep, remember that there are no mice in your sleeping compartment, so you probably miss their scampering.  You should, however, not mention this to your fellow passengers, nor should you be insulted if they spray a little perfume in your direction.

Upon arriving in Hong Kong, remember that you can't chase down the ultra clean metro with sliding glass doors or throw a rock at it for leaving you the way you can with a plywood-floored bus.  You aren't supposed to sit in the laps of people you don’t know, even if it is really crowded, or offer to hold other people’s babies.  In fact, you aren't supposed to take up other people's personal space at all, and people get rather testy if you put your armpit in their face.  To help you, there are polite (and rather wordy) reminders everywhere that you have left bumpkin world behind.  “Please Do Not Spit.”  “Please Put Your Rubbish in the Rubbish Bin,” and, my personal favorite, “Please Calm Down and Do Not Push.” The signs are in Mandarin and English.  The casual observer might make the mistake of assuming that English is used simply because it is one of the official languages of Hong Kong, but so is Cantonese, and there are no signs in Cantonese, so I came up with an alternate theory.  Those English signs are for other bumpkins like me. “Calm down and don't push,” I whispered to myself, “Don’t throw that rubbish in the street.”  I think that other helpful signs would have included, “Bus Driver Comes to a Complete Stop, No Need to Jump Off of Bus.”  (I have gotten my foot stuck in one in Changsha and so I blame that particular behavior on the fact that I am a sort of bus trauma victim now).

I am on the way to the hostel room in the rabbit warren of a high rise where I will sleep.  The owner, who was Pakistani, yells at me to stand in line for the elevator. "Otherwise," he says, “how will the people in the elevator get off." How efficient, I think, or I would have, were I not so busy gawking at my surroundings. Looking around this building in the Hong Kong suburb of Kowloon, I hear twelve different languages and see people of all colors from every corner of the world. I forgot that there were places where not everyone is Chinese. The smells of curry from the Indian food stalls waft up my nose and make my stomach growl. There are other backpackers in the elevator. My friend squeezes my arm, a silent warning to play it cool, but I know that she too is trying hard to contain herself.

Luckily, when we get to the room, our bumpkin ways kick in, we haggle and bargain and leave in a huff to stay in a room upstairs with half the space where, through the walls, you can hear the sound of scissors clipping cloth as the workers next door furiously make shirts all through the night. Total savings: about $1.50.

That night, after a Starbucks coffee, I’m back in the game, I am eating a delicious Samosa out of a paper bag and drinking an imported Carlsburg beer walking down the Avenue of the Stars, which is sort of like Hollywood Boulevard, in Kowloon. I stare out over Victoria Harbor to the pulsing, clean and beautiful heart of Hong Kong.  I love it.  I love its neat sky scrapers, with their lights.  I love its new age restaurants and hipster bars.  I love its Bentleys and Land Rovers, and meticulously labeled orchid flower gardens in which perch tropical birds (also labeled).  I love the green of Victoria Peak rising above it all, and I think that this is life; this is where I need to move and spend the rest of my days. No more dirt roads and bugs, no more pig ears and chicken feet.

As I breathe in the salty fresh air, an arm taps my shoulder. “Excuse me miss,” says a voice in accented and perfect English without any trace of betel nut.  I turn to see a Hong Kong police officer. “You can't drink that beer here,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

”Next you’re going to tell me I have to throw away my trash in that garbage bin,” I say with a snort.

“Yes,” she replies, tips her hat, and walks away.

I oblige of course, and the next morning, disembarking in Changsha, I can't help but smile at the 300-foot fake torch and grove of fake palm trees that greet me at the train station. I grab a bao zi and hop the 135 bus back to the country. The man who sits next to me starts talking to his friend in the local dialect about me. “Look at this foreigner,” he says. “Why is she so big?” “Does she eat rice?” “Can she use chopsticks?”  They stare and I pretend to read. After about five minutes, our driver decides to play chicken with the large purple 601 bus racing through the intersection where we are turning left. I come within inches of having the bus plow through my seat and we end up halfway up the sidewalk. People on the sidewalk jump out of the way and then continue about their Saturday morning. No one on the bus says much. The driver doesn't curse, but asks for help backing up and the people seated in the back, oblige, “Turn a little to the right,” “OK that’s it!”  I breathe deeply; there is frost on the small and infrequent patches of grass. I am home.

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Spring 2006 Journal Contest.

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“You learn something new everyday.”  After 50 days in Chaling, I have learned the following:

1. The name of the city, “Chaling”, is very close to cha ye, the long name for tea, because there used to be a lot of tea trees here. Before there was a city.

2. Hosting a weight-lifting contest is a legitimate reason to delay the beginning of school for two weeks.

3. People laugh at you wherever you go. Whatever you do. Whether you open your mouth or not. And you don't know why. Unless you're wearing pajama pants. Then you know why.

4. There are no car taxis in Chaling, only van taxis and motorcycle taxis, which should be referred to as “death bikes”.

5. When dismounting from a death bike, do NOT accidentally put your leg on that big hot metal pipe because it will NOT feel good.

6. If you’re riding a bike taxi and the driver gets a call on his cell phone, guess what he does? He answers it. If you’re lucky, he’ll pull over.

7. There's a shampoo store across the street from my school, and if you're scruffy, the lady will try to sell you facial care products for men.

8. The girl who checks people's bags at the grocery store has been practicing her English. And I'm not her English teacher.

9. The only sound you can hear outside at 12:45 is the chirp of crickets. A car or bike may pass every minute or so.

10. If you're in the grocery store, and you ask if there's any peanut butter, you will be shown to the peanut oil. If you ask again, they will point to the peanut milk.

11. I do consider the town of Chaling to be within the boundaries of civilization because they do indeed sell q-tips at the grocery store.

12. It is perfectly acceptable for a dog to wander into the school dining hall, and even into the kitchen, to sniff the fresh vegetables. If the dog only knew the danger of this activity…

13. Don’t lend my liaison money. That, or be prepared to wait three weeks to get it back.

14. Everyone in the city shifts from short sleeves to long sleeves on the EXACT same day. This year, the switch was made on September 7.

15. There’s a female tailor outside the school gate. She was curious as to why I hadn’t made the shift to long sleeves, and I showed her my arm hair. She had to pull it. Her neighbor had to join in, as did the female friend who was walking with me. It was very enjoyable.

16. It’s easy to tell the difference between a brothel and a hair salon because the ladies in the hair salons look better than the ladies in the brothels.

17. If you’re done eating a watermelon, just throw the remains out the window. Even if you live on the second story. I was walking down the street one night and a watermelon missed my head by inches.

18. A mule pulling a cart is still a viable method of transporting goods in Chaling.

19. A dude pulling a cart is still a viable method of transporting goods in Chaling.

20. No business is private business—even passport business. Even the contents of your wallet.

21. The senior classes are numbered, and the junior classes have some of the same numbers for their classes. On my second day of teaching I almost taught the wrong Class 138.

22. Occasionally, and without warning, some teachers will take their classes to the library to read. Nothing says, “Go back to bed” like an empty classroom.

23. The students make artwork to decorate their own classrooms. Class 109 has a naked angel reading a book on the back wall.

24. Even after you’ve been here a month, they still don’t stop staring.

25. In my shower, there’s an inverse relationship between water temperature and water pressure.

26. China Post is open 7 days a week and doesn’t close on holidays. I felt patriotic when I got mail on National Day.

27. The biggest National Day fireworks show was conducted at 2:51 am (the next morning). I was not given any advance notice.

28. Whistling has increased 200% since I started working to end the shortage.

29. There’s a kick-ass Mexican restaurant a short walk from my school. No, there isn’t.

30. You know a student’s English is good when they walk up to you and say, “My English is poor, but I would like to talk to you…”

31. My liaison’s daughter will always be known as “little empress” because she always gets what she wants.

32. Chickens poop silently and without squatting.

33. At a small countryside bus station, the buses park less in parallel fashion and more like a herd of cattle settling down for the night.

34. The biggest fuss made at my school happened when the parents came to pick up their children for the weekend. I’ve never heard so many car horns.

35. If you try to observe another teacher’s class, you will be the biggest distraction.

36. If a student comes up to you before class and says that they are going to go play basketball, they may be on the basketball team. Or they may not.

37. Whenever I get on the bus, I’m a conversation starter for everyone riding. Not for nothing, either. One time, I was riding and somehow everyone knew when I was going to get off…before I did.

38. That pretty blue army jacket is not becoming of teachers. It’s for old men.

39. Whenever I teach a class of students for the first time, I like to make them ask each other questions. The best question I’ve heard was: “Can you lend me money?”

40. I like to end every class by letting the students ask me questions. The best one so far: “Can I feel your hand?” (Another hairy reference).

41. There is one substance that can assume all three states of matter (solid, liquid, and gas) at the same time. It’s called diarrhea.

42. The students think my eyes are blue, which would be fine, except that they are green.

43. One female student has a jacket with a pin that says “I Love Lesbians”. I asked the student if she knew what it meant. She did. And how to say it in Chinese.

44. A student commented that I resembled one of Harry Potter’s friends from the movies. I asked “which one?” to which the student replied, “the fat one”.

45. Air freshener is fast-acting, incense is long-lasting. Both are essential for the bathroom.

46. When the bell rings to go to bed, it sounds like thunder because 4,000 students get up out of their desks at the same time.

47. Zhuzhou is 79 miles away from Chaling, and Changsha is 103 miles away from Chaling. However, a bus ride from Zhuzhou to Chaling takes four and a half hours, and a bus ride from Changsha to Chaling takes three and a half.

48. Usually, before or after a meal, students will have to mop the floors of the dining hall, and it will become slippery. The best way to get across is to waddle like a duck.

49. If a local citizen offers you a white-clear liquid in a secondhand container, it’s probably moonshine. If you drink it, your stomach and liver will rebel.

50. Oh, look, there’s a man standing in front of a public telephone…but he’s not making a call, he’s taking a piss.

Selected as Third Place, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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The Gaokao, by Kathleen Noone

Football, student number 17 in my class of 65 Chinese middle school students, glances apprehensively around the room before turning to me with an unapologetic stare.

“Ting bu dong,” he says in Chinese, which literally translates to “I listen, but I do not hear,” a favorite expression of my students when neither listening nor hearing. Football shrugs and sits down, returning his stare to the Chinese sports magazine boldly situated atop his desk. After a few seconds, he quizzically returns my stare. He turns to me and says in English, “I don’t know.”

“You do know,” I say. “I just talked about this. What do you bring with you to the beach?”

This is the ninth time this week that I’ve taught “Where are you going on vacation?” to my Junior Two classes. I presented a PowerPoint with beach volleyballs and bathing suits. I drew pictures of the ocean on the board. I passed around sunglasses. Football, however, sat in the back of the class reading a sports magazine, occasionally passing it to his friends, Harry Potter and Apple, for comment.

With 24 hours to go until the beginning of a week long vacation for the Chinese National Day, exasperation tugs me into further impatience. I need to teach this lesson four more times before leaving Changsha. My students’ attention spans shorten with the increasing proximity to vacation and I’m making mental lists of everything I need to pack to fly to Chengdu the following day. My voice, strong and clear earlier that week, now recedes into my throat and emerges increasingly hoarse.

“What do you bring with you to the beach?” I ask again, yanking his magazine away.

“No,” he says, placing his head on his desk, shutting me out.

Seething with frustration, I ignore Football’s blatant show of disrespect and turn to Apple. She answers the question correctly immediately.

After class, I pull Football aside, asking him to explain his behavior. “Would you behave like that in one of your regular classes with your Chinese teachers?”

“No,” he says, matter-of-factly. To my surprise, Football does not attempt to feign an apology, nor does he find anything wrong in his actions.

“Lao shi, I have tests in every class,” he says. “There is no time for everyone to learn your English. I worry about my Chinese classes and about the Gaokao.”

I find his answer unsatisfactory. “You must try,” I say.

Like the American SAT, the Chinese Gaokao determines where, and if, students will attend college. With the exception of my class, the coursework in each of the students’ other classes is geared towards preparing them to perform well on the Gaokao.

Having finished my classes for the day, I sit in the back of Football’s next class and watch the students’ Chinese teacher assume control of my formerly raucous group. With my rudimentary Chinese, I roughly follow that the instructor is testing the class on a particularly difficult geometry problem. I sleepily attempt the math in my head. Like the students, I have been up since 6 a.m. Unlike the students, my official daily activities have ended for the day. They will still participate in mandatory after-school athletics and mandatory study hours.

Despite the long day, no yawns escape from my students’ faces. They sit alert, copying the triangle and its precise angles, diligently working towards the correct answer. They are aware that they will see this problem again. Perhaps on the test in two weeks, perhaps on the Gaokao, but they will be tested, graded and judged accordingly. Born post-Tiananmen Square, fruits of China’s one child policy, my students are the sole hope of four grandparents and two parents. Among the first generations in modern Chinese history to witness their country as a non-violent economic superpower, my students are expected to redeem China’s stagnation during the country’s Cultural Revolution. Will their performance live up to the expectations?

Though the same room where I taught a half-hour before, leverage now charges the air with seriousness. Each correct answer in this classroom will build to each correct answer on the Gaokao. Though years away, each correct answer on the Gaokao may determine the difference between assuming the role of shopkeeper in a provincial village or attending university in Beijing. Will these students prove themselves worth the great emotional and financial investment of sending one’s child away to boarding school at the age of six?

The instructor calls on Football to explain part of the algorithm. Football begins, but then commits a multiplication error and stands stumped, facing the blackboard. Harry Potter and Apple keenly look on, unable to aid their friend. The class sits silently, no stray answers escape, and no one dares shrug in apathy.

For a moment, I stop taking notes on this teacher’s militaristic teaching style. I stop calculating how I will encourage students to take my class more seriously. Football answers the question. His answer is incorrect and I bow my head with the weight of disappointment.

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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I'm in China, by Dan LoFaro

My phone's standard Nokia tune woke me up at 8.57 am. It was Strong. Where are you? Huh? I thought. There is a meeting at nine that the principal wants you to attend, we are waiting outside the office for you. Strong casually explained as if I had previous warning of this. Hanging up and realizing it was nine already, I rushed to meet Strong, my liaison, at the school office building by 9.10. Walking to the auditorium he explained that I was going to be introduced to the school's teachers. Great, I thought, as I stumbled behind Strong, still waking up.

I'm in China, I'm in China, and I'll be here for a year. I kept telling myself, looking around at the mayhem happening around me in the auditorium. The principal spoke to an auditorium of preoccupied teachers. Some were handing out books others were talking on cell phones, while very few were paying attention to the principal on stage behind a microphone. Worse than my high school collections I remembered thinking. Through the chatter, the ringtones, and the smoke it appeared as if no one cared what he was saying, and he didn't care if anyone was listening. It was just a formality, he had to speak, and we had to be there. I would soon learn that China was full of these instances, where the message isn't necessarily important, but that fact that it must be delivered is. Rules are followed as loosely as possible. The teachers were told they had to come to a meeting and they did, but were not told they had to listen, so they didn't. Simple as that.

I stood up and waved, receiving some smiles as teachers briefly forgot about what they were doing to look at the new waigouren, or foreigner, as I was introduced by Strong and the Principal. OK, I think you should leave now. Strong's words mirrored my thoughts.

I made a quick exit, going back to the apartment, changing and grabbing my bag for an excursion. An hour long stop at the internet cafe caught me up with some of my friends and the news wire. Internet cafes are cheap and dirty, like many things in Shaoyang.

A customary ten RMB deposit, and a seat at a fairly fast, but beat up computer, and off you go. Turning the computer on and seeing the Great Wall logo while starting up reminds me that I'm still in China , in case I forgot. I'm welcomed to the computer by penguins and unrecognizable Chinese characters. Penguins...somethings in China I will never understand. The internet connection is fast enough, allowing me to check my mail, delawareonline.com, and cnn.com. Going to China I knew I would have to worry about privacy, especially digital privacy on the internet, but I never expected the physical privacy invasion that I would experience in the internet cafe. Other patrons were ever curious to see what the waigouren was looking at online. Reading my emails while chain smoking over my shoulder left me feeling really invaded. Internet cafes were not a pleasant place. After an hour the lao ba, or boss, gave me back nine RMB of my ten RMB deposit and I left not wanting to return, but doubting my computer would be fixed soon enough to prevent me from coming back.

The rest of my day was filled with walking around and buying supplies to make my favorite pasta dish. I had already purchased extra virgin olive oil and pasta in Changsha, thankfully, as it wasn't anywhere in Shaoyang. I could, of course, find onions - all though only red ones, garlic, and tomatoes. I would have to make due without basil.

At around six, after a good nap, I started washing the tomatoes when my apartment phone rang. Your phone works now, he said, stating the obvious. The school paid the bill. Not sure where this conversation was going, I was about to say goodbye, when Strong interrupted, we are waiting for you at the school gate, hurry, we will have a banquet tonight. Hmmm... of course, I thought, China . Forgetting the possibility of eating pasta tonight, I made it to the gate as fast as I could.

Mr. Lin wants to take you out to celebrate his daughter's acceptance to University in Beijing. Great, I said to myself as we hopped in a cab and sped off to dinner. Along the way strong explained that Mr. Lin was the head of the local communist party at the school and that his daughter, Ashlee, was very beautiful. Coming from Strong, who probably taught her last year, I was not so sure what to make of his comment. Hoping for the best, we walked into the private dining room and were greeted by Mr. Li as the rest of the guests filed in, and then lastly his daughter.

She was beautiful. Tall, cute, and even had some curves – something that most girls in China lacked. Hello, thank you for coming, my name is Ashlee. And to top it off she spoke perfect English. She would study international business and relations in Beijing starting in a few weeks. Universities in Beijing were some of the best in the country. She must have been very smart and well connected – I guess this is where her father being the head of the local commie party fits into play.

He thinks you look like Andy Roddick. She translated for her father, as I laughed. I think so too. She said smiling. Do you like tennis? It was nice to have a real conversation with someone close to my age, especially with a cute girl.

Dinner was delicious, and Strong, of course, remembering my drinking with Mr. Chen, bragged about me, and decided that I would P.K. with Mr. Li tonight. After a few gan bie's around the table and congratulatory cheers to Ashlee the conversation with here turned to politics. Feeling a little uncomfortable, as I was sitting next to a powerful party member, I tried to skirt around some of her more delicate questions about East Asia, until I dropped the ball on the most sensitive issue in China.

What do you think of Taiwan? Nervously racking my brain for an answer while glancing over at Mr. Li to make sure he didn't understand English I came up with what I thought was a pretty good response. I don't know much about it, but I think it is a Chinese issue. She agreed, but pushed the conversation forward until the big “-i” word slipped out of my mouth. Independent.

We were warned about this in orientation – Taiwan was a very sensitive issue in China . This was not news to me, as I had read numerous articles about the issue, and even studied some about it in school. Her perfect English had, however, slipped me into a comfort zone. I think that Taiwan ’s independence is not a big d-

Never say independent and Taiwan in the same sentence. Ashlee cut me off before I even realized what I had said. People in China are very sensitive about it, she said, looking towards her father, who sat there smiling at me, oblivious to what I had just said.

Strong came in to save the day – P.K! You must P.K. with Mr. Li now. I never appreciated Strong's fascination with my drinking more than I did that night. The talk was over, as two new beers were brought out, as I gladly accepted the challenge to drink my host, the leading local Party Member, to the floor.

Before Strong and I went our separate our apartments I thanked him for his help at dinner, and asked if next time he could let me know ahead of time for any sort of engagements we had, explaining that even 15 minutes would be nicer than none, as sometimes I was busy. He assured me he would.

Strong woke me up again on Wednesday. Today we will have an English Department meeting at four o'clock. Strong gave me my heads up that I had requested, but at seven in the morning I wasn't sure what was worse, being woken up or rushed. The meeting turned out to be fairly simple, as I was introduced to the faculty and told that I would be responsible for teaching the Warming Up and Speaking in the textbook. I was also informed that we would go to Changsha to get my medical exam after the meeting. O.K. Sure, why not. The same black Passat that took me out of Changsha was waiting outside the office building after the meeting.

Dong Dong, Principal Zhang, Vice – Principal Li, and Strong all accompanied me to Changsha for my medical exam. We left at 4.30, so I assumed that we would be getting back really late, as it was at least a two and a half hour trip. Strong informed me with a chuckle that I was wrong – we would be staying in a hotel and getting my medical exam the next day. I said to myself, that information would have been helpful, realizing I had no change of clothes, toothbrush, or deodorant, and we were halfway to Changsha.

I'm in China . I'll be here for a year. 

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Changsha Children, by Amanda Morisky

For many years I had dreams of volunteering abroad after graduating college. I knew in my heart that I wanted to see a part of the world I had never seen before. I knew I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives, and I knew I wanted to spend some time finding my place not only in America but also in the world. However, spending a year teaching in China honestly wasn’t the first idea that came to mind. But as they say, things happen for a reason, and this past year has exceeded all of my expectations. The opportunity to join the WorldTeach organization presented itself to me, and I decided to pursue it. I never thought of myself as a teacher, but I had always heard Chinese children are well-behaved and hard working, so I changed my mind and wanted to give it my best shot. I also have always been fascinated by the Chinese culture, and as things started falling into place, I realized this opportunity was the best fit for me. The WorldTeach experience has been challenging, educational, and rewarding, and it has definitely helped me fulfill the goals I set out to accomplish in the first place.

When I moved to Changsha, Hunan, I not only moved to a new location, but also a new lifestyle and culture. As anyone can imagine, being dropped into a foreign land where you can’t speak the language and don’t know the customs can be difficult to say the least. It took some time to adjust, but I gradually learned enough of the language to survive and even hold casual conversations, and quickly adapted to my surroundings; my town, my school and my home. Shida Fuzhong is the name of the middle school where I taught conversational English to 8th grade students, and also where I lived in an apartment on the campus. It became my new home. Everything I could ask for in an apartment was provided to me, and in fact has been the nicest apartment I have ever lived in. It not only served as my home, but my sanctuary when I needed to get away from the stresses of my daily life. I also couldn’t have asked for a better location.

The school is located at the base of a mountain and offers the best view of the west side of the river. It is close to the center of the city, but still far enough away to get some peace and quiet. Shida Fuzhong treated me very well, not only as a teacher but as a resident. If I ever had problems with my utilities such as the hot water, electricity, phone, internet, etc, there was always someone here to help. Even during Spring Festival when the majority of businesses come to a standstill while everyone celebrates, the school went out of their way to help me. During this time I managed to lose power, gas, and break a window. When I notified the school, they called someone to come from outside of Changsha to repair everything for me. I felt bad I took this man away from his break and offered to pay him, but he would not accept my money and told me he was happy to help an American in his country. This is only one of countless examples of kind-heartedness and generosity I experienced. Everyone I came into contact with was beyond generous and helpful in making my life easier. My liaison at the school has become one of my best friends. He goes beyond helping me with issues I need addressed at school to helping me with all aspects of my Chinese life. From shopping, to transportation, to eating, to outings on the town, he has made my experience so much more robust and comfortable, and I wouldn’t have been able to experience half as much as I have without him.

While in Changsha I have had the chance to see many things. The city itself has more people than New York City, but in a much smaller area. Like any other city, it has plenty to do as far as shopping, eating, parks to go running or playing in, bars to relax and let loose in, many CD and DVD stores, where you can get almost anything you can imagine at very cheap prices, and all kinds of entertainment from arcades, to theaters, etc. At first I was intimidated by the size of the city, taking into account my unfamiliarity with my surroundings and the language. But soon enough I was exploring many facets of the city I would have never seen if I was too timid. I just had to be brave and get myself out there, and I found that was the best way to adapt and learn, by immersing myself in everything it had to offer. Sometimes my students and their families, or my liaison, or my fellow teachers would take me to places outside Changsha that I would otherwise not have seen. Some things I saw were the Hunan Provincial Museum, a mountain exploration, a traditional variety show, an embroidery factory, nature parks, adventure parks, and the Window of the World, which was an exhibit of miniature models of different parts of the world. All of these were within close distance to my school, but still provided a getaway from my normal routine.

As an educational institution, Shida Fuzhong was also very welcoming, and made me feel comfortable to be working there. Having almost no prior teaching experience, I was a little worried at how I would handle so many students and so many lessons. I was relieved when they gave me free reign (within reason, of course) to teach my classes however I wanted to, as long as I covered the required material. The teachers would offer help when asked, but for the most part I was on my own. I took this opportunity to be creative and design lesson plans that I thought 8th grade students would enjoy. I wanted to help them learn the English language while having fun. I often incorporated music and movies into my lessons, so the students could hear the more common spoken English as opposed to the formalities of a textbook.

My students became my life in China. They brought me so much joy and made me feel more alive than I ever thought possible. They were more than just my students; they were also my teachers and my friends. As I was constantly trying to learn their language, they would teach me new words and phrases in the same way I taught them, and they enjoyed doing so. I had a “lunch crew”, Danny, Harry, Daniel, Jack, and Justin, who would invite me to lunch with them often. It was a joy to interact with them outside of the classroom, and they made me feel like a carefree kid again, joking and laughing as all young children do. Other students would ask me to play ball with them at lunch time or after school, and even invite me to their homes to have dinner with their families. It is hard to say I didn’t have a favorite class or favorites students, but even in dealing with over 1400 students in the course of the year, I was able to become closer with a certain few. When I first started teaching I felt the students were too structured and lacked much individuality. But in the same way I gradually came out of my shell, they too began to show their true colors. With nicknames like Crazy Man, Small Pig, Kobe, McGrady, Stinky, and Star, I knew I would be able to pull their personalities out of them. One of my favorite kids, Jack, was known as the ‘tough guy’ to his classmates, but I knew him to have a heart of gold. He would always bring me candy and invite me to lunch, and was a good friend. Another, Star, was a music lover. He came to me once asking me to make him a mix of my favorite American music. I started him off on some simpler music with lyrics that were easy to understand, but when he kept coming back for more I gave him more diverse things to try, especially modern pop songs that represented the common English language. By finding a shared interest, I was able to help him learn English easier, and also probably more slang than I know!

A third student that I shared a great experience with was Denise. She invited me to her home to make dumplings with her, her mother, and grandmother. I was honored to be regarded as a member of her family for this night, and also to be part of one of their family traditions. They taught me everything from making the filling, to the dumpling, to the proper amount to put inside, to folding it closed, and steaming them until they were ready to eat. Even though the ones I made weren’t that visually pleasing (it really is an art to make a perfect dumpling), they tasted amazing! Even though all of my students can be a handful in the classroom, I’ll miss them terribly when I return to the United States.

Looking back on this past year and the decision I made to come out here, I am glad I did it and have no regrets. I have learned many things about myself and other people, and it has been a life changing experience to become a temporary Chinese citizen and see what it’s like to live on the other side of the world. My job, friends, home, and life here will all be hard to leave, but I know it has opened so many doors for me, and that is something I will never take for granted. I will leave China in another two months confident that I have touched the lives of many children and have left my mark on China, and return to the United States knowing that it has changed my life as well.

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Why Cry, by Sannisha Dale

Two weeks ago I sat at my computer and had the overwhelming urge to cry. Why cry? I cried then and I continue to cry now because I fear the coming of July. Come July I will leave China with only memories of what this year has meant to me as a teacher, friend, and an individual.

As a WorldTeach volunteer in Changsha my official role is Oral English Teacher at Yali Boarding Middle School. However, my mere title does not even touch the surface of what this position as brought into my life. It gave me 300 students which I refer to as my “kids”. Some are shy, witty, determined, ambitious, funny and/or naughty, but in any given class they put a smile on my face. I recall one day in September I taught a lesson on emotions. I decided to introduce various emotion vocabulary by acting out the meaning and having the students guess. One of the words was “ecstatic” so I jumped up and down, with a huge smile on my face, shouting “I won a million dollar, I am so ecstatic”. The class busted out in laughter and shouted guesses such as “happy” “very happy” “crazy” “very very happy”. At the conclusion of the class one of my students approached me and said “Ms. Dale I think you are very clever, I can always understand what you mean”. I replied “clever or crazy” and he smiled and said “clever”. That night I went home with a warm feeling in my chest. To my surprise nights like these occurred on a regular basis.

However, it is not just as a class that my students bring me joy; on a one-to-one basis they seem to amaze me even more. For instance, at the beginning of the year one of my students Ase asked if I could help her to become less shy and more talkative. I told her that I can assist by having dinner with her every Wednesday night, when we could talk about anything she desired, but I also told her that essentially the decision to be less shy and more talkative would be hers. Four months later, an oral English competition was hosted for the entire school and Ase entered the competition. The day before the competition she told me “I do not expect to win nor receive a prize but the experience will be good for me”. The night of the competition I was one of the judges and although there were many wonderful acts on stage, I smiled the most and cheered the loudest as “Ase” completed her speech after stopping three times.

In addition to Ase, there are several other students who I have formed a relationship with outside of the classroom and “yes” they also amaze me. There is Joe, Andrew, and Angela. Joe speaks English almost fluently, but he has difficulties writing English compositions. In order to combat this problem he wrote a weekly composition paper which I corrected and provided feedback on. This weekly composition is a huge commitment given the pre-existing demands for a student at Yali and is reflection of Joe’s determination and hard-work. Andrew is also a very ambitious student. He had completed is personal statement for applying to colleges in the United States for Fall of 2007 as of November, 2005, only 2 months after requesting my aid.

Angela is not my direct student, but she entered my life out of pure initiative and courage. For one week I received notes under my apartment door from a girl who wanted to speak to me. Her last note informed me that she would be stopping by after I finished my class that night at 9:30pm. At 10pm Angela knocked on my door. I invited her to come in and she first apologized for any inconvenience. She then explained that she had dreams of attending a university in America and that she hoped that I could help to make her dream a reality. From that night onward Angela came to my apartment and office to discuss which colleges to apply to, fill-out applications, write her personal statement and apply for scholarships. On Chinese New Year’s Angela called to tell me that she had been accepted to Miami University and had received the highest scholarship offered to an international student. I screamed at the top of my lungs and called everyone I could reach. This was not my accomplishment, but it was the accomplishment of my student and thus I celebrated.

During my stay here, I have also celebrated my friendships with several key individuals. There is James, Elsa, Big Bird, and Grandma. James is my best friend in China. He is sincere, funny, frank and down-to-earth. Every moment I spend with him is filled with laughter. Even during the time when he was preparing to embark upon one of the most important decisions in his life, marriage, we were still smiling. I recall one night when we went to a dancehall together and James proceeded to teach me how to dance to traditional Chinese music. The moves were all very foreign to me as I am accustomed to dancing to reggae, soca, hip-hop and African music. Nonetheless he endured the countless number of times I stepped on his feet. Elsa is a "free spirit" and even though she is married with a son I can see many aspects of her character in me. She has ambitious dreams and an outgoing personality but she would not hesitate to sacrifice her time in order to make others happy.

One day we were shopping and we saw a young man begging on the street and Elsa looked at me and said so "he'll join us for super". Big Bird is Big Bird. His name is a direct translation of his surname, but because he is rather handsome the name does not take away any cool points. In his words when we are together he feels completely free to say and do anything, including racing down a dirt road at midnight to see who the best runner is. Last but definitely not least, there is grandma. Last semester when the whether was nice, I use to get up every morning at 6:30am to do Tai Chi with Grandma. She did not speak a word of English and I did not speak a word of Chinese but we communicated in creative ways. After a few weeks I found out that she had a granddaughter studying at Yali and I offered to tutor her twice a week. Although I did not expect anything in return, our tutoring sessions became more like a family gathering with food and laughter. One day grandma told her granddaughter to translate these words into English. She said “you are a great young woman and I will be very sad when you go back to America, but please promise to come back and visit me”.

Although this year has meant a lot to me because of my friendships and students I have also grown as an individual because of my experience as a black woman in Changsha. As a black woman, I receive many reactions from Chinese natives. Some reactions are out of pure surprise, fear, ignorance and/or curiosity. For instance I have been in stores and approached a teller from behind only to have her scream and run away. I have also had parents who try to get their babies to play with me and the babies cried. At least once a day I pass by a store or group of individuals, where one person spots me first and then frantically screams “Hei Ren (black person)” to alert the others. I have also had an unaccountable amount of individuals ask to take my pictures, rub my skin or touch my hair. Usually I entertain these requests because most of them are genuinely just curious. Others however, have taken my pictures without permission by engaging in one of three amusing methods. Some pretend to play with their camera-phone and snap the picture, others ask their friend to stand nearby me and then they pretend to take a picture of their friend, and some individuals just boldly take the picture.

Honestly, I have never taken the many reactions as an insult nor as acts of racism, because it is not racism. Racism is often defined as a system in which a combination of prejudice and power together prevents one race from having equal access to opportunities in a society, while benefiting another race. As a foreigner in China, I feel as if I have even greater access to some opportunities than Chinese natives. So instead of attributing the reactions of Chinese natives to racism I attribute it to a lack of knowledge about the Black race. For instance for the majority of my students and all of my close friends, I am the first black person they have interacted with. I therefore take it upon myself to inform them about my race and dispel any negative stereotypes whenever the opportunity arises. While doing so, I also make it a point to inform them that I do not represent all Black people; in fact there is a lot of diversity within the black race. For example, not all blacks are Jamaican, have dreadlocks, or love dancing.

This experience has thus helped me to grow because on a daily basis I live in an environment where I am always on display and instead of getting upset, I embrace it. When Chinese natives look at me, I smile and wave; and when they ask "Why Jamaicans are black but Jamaica is not in Africa" I tell them about slavery in the simplest way that is possible. Unexpectedly, the many questions, stares, and reactions to my blackness have enhanced my pride in my ancestry and race.

In conclusion this year has increased my sense of pride in my identity as a black woman; given me the opportunity to impact the lives of 300 students who in turn have had an even greater impact on me; and brought into my life four amazing friends. Hence, I cry and fear the coming of July.  

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Experimental Exchange Program, by Megan Ko

His desk is a lot like a grownup’s, accompanied by black metal file cabinets and cushy swivel chair. He even has a carpet protector shielding the tile floor. But his desk does not occupy an office; it is in the middle of our living room. Here, surrounded by bad art work and recycled furniture, I began to look for my future, months away from college graduation, when I thought I was tired of being a student. At twenty-one, I had left the country twice for no more than two weeks at a time. I had hardly seen much of the United States. I had been a cookie cutter student getting straight A’s and going straight to college. It was near the end, after sixteen straight years of wearing the student badge, waiting on my anthropology degree and Spanish minor, that I decided it was time to go.

I still jump because I think there are bombs falling out of the sky, and each time, my heard jerks in search of something to crawl under. Even after seven months it takes a moment to remember that this is China and what I am hearing are the fireworks. Thunderous signals of celebration and change, their sound is unmistakable. On rare days when I do not leave my apartment, those same days I think I am hearing a blitzkrieg, busy with correspondence, lesson planning or laundry, I can even forget that I am living in China. It is these times, when I forget, that I feel regret rather than joy. I want to remember that I am here and why I came.

When I knew I wanted to leave the country and my student desk behind, the option to be a foreign English teacher became suddenly appealing. I had always had misgivings about the colonial implications of teaching English as a foreign language, and my own inexperience in both teaching and living abroad were not exactly comforting, but I was satisfied that being a foreign teacher would take me far from the United States and my serial student status. These things I wanted to leave behind not because I was running away from them, but because I thought they needed to be seen with perspective. I was tired of talking about social issues and world politics from my own queen-sized bed. I wanted to experience new things and help make people’s lives better. I figured as long as there was a demand for English among learners, there was an opportunity for me to pursue my goals abroad.

I left all of my friends and family behind. At Dallas Fort-Worth I strained to hold back my tears, trying desperately to avoid any public displays of emotion. My airport anxiety seemed only to grow with every mile we traveled over the depths of the Pacific Ocean. I am the baby of a family of six and had never before left home for more than a semester. I wanted to turn back before I even stepped out of the Beijing airport. As the situation came into focus, however, this explosion of doubt saw its first and last appearance. For a brief moment, standing in the most populous country in the world, surrounded by more than fifty traveling companions, I let myself think I was alone.

We had just gotten off the airplane and were being herded toward the gates to officially enter the country. I took a quick detour showing myself to the bathroom before taking on the barrage of agents and forms. Entering that bathroom gave me the first glimpse of how life was different in China. As I approached one of the stalls, things conspicuously missing from many other bathrooms I would find, a fashionably-dressed woman was just exiting. As she passed by me with her straight-permed hair, she spat in the direction of the small plastic waste bin and exited nonchalantly. After that, to my dismay, I was left alone with my first squat toilet.

This was only the beginning of my new experiences in China, some equally disturbing, yet others inexplicably blissful. My favorite of these is dancing in the park. At night, amidst the people playing badminton, children roller-skating, and dogs prancing; more than a hundred dancers glide gracefully to the music which floats off of a small rusty cart. They seem to represent the entire population, males and females, young and old. Some people are paired off, others in small groups and still others singular. Outside, in the open air, free of alcoholic influence, or special occasion, I know, this would never happen in the United States.

Then again, in the United States, I also would not be a high school teacher. After all that is why I am here. To those who stay at home perhaps I am a volunteer, my wages are too low by their standards for me to be anything else, but here I know I am a teacher. My students look to me with trust and respect, my lessons require every bit as much planning as those of my coworkers. Being a foreign teacher makes me different though. I do not get invited to faculty meetings and I do not have to give as much homework or exams. Many people, students and teachers alike, encourage me to play games and sing songs, but that does not mean I am taken for granted. I take my commitment to my students seriously; they are the reason that I am able to experience life in China. Here I am a foreign expert and I want to represent my country and my colleagues well.

Becoming an expert just by changing zip codes never seemed like a possibility. Now that it is a reality, I am sometimes overwhelmed with the responsibility it brings. After my time here, though, I have learned to relax by looking at each day as an experiment. Furthermore, I have come to realize that all you need to be a good teacher is to listen to your students needs and find creative ways to meet them.

I came to China because I thought I was done being a student. My arrival did make me a teacher, but I realize now, that I never stopped being a student. Here I am not only teaching others but I am learning everyday, learning to be a stronger person and to live outside the bounds of US culture. China is a beautiful place with its own rough edges and contradictions. It is not a place for the overly ethnocentric, or the short-tempered. Here I still get asked why my hair is black. I still get told I am too fat, get lingering stares, and have people use me like a reference book. I do have problems with language and have experienced first hand the transformation of daily chores into monumental excursions. Regardless, I want to tell people to come. I want to tell people that it is different, not backward. That people are friendly and welcoming. That I may be one of the only vegan, mixed-blooded, feminist, female soccer players at the mahjong table, but that China still feels like home to me.

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I fought and fought the students in my classes who thought they were too cool for my class.  These students slept and refused to try.  In one particular class most of them were like that.  I would get angry and they would tune me out.  The second semester I decided to start fresh.  I tried a roll call on them, but 50% had no English name or refused to take one so I was left stumbling through their Chinese names, which they loved to laugh at.  I did it, so relieved when I got to an English name.  I looked at one and couldn't help but laughing when I called it out, "Mr. Cat?"  The students listening giggled, but no one answered.  "Mr. Cat?"  "Oh! Me."  The biggest screw-up who worked hardest not to try in my class, and the only student who openly made fun of me, raised his hand.  I had previously avenged myself on this student by thinking bad thoughts about him and imagining him as a filling station attendant after he failed out of school. 

"You?" I answered, I had to work hard not to fall down laughing with the rest of the students who were stunned.  Mr. Cat smiled big and sat up proudly.  His lead teacher had assigned him to the front row and he was living up to the attention. 

His grammar teacher rolled her eyes when I asked her about him and said that mostly he slept in her class.  I was so excited to say that's what he used to he used to do in my class but since the advent of his new name, he tried.  He was full of enlightening quips that seem so little, but are so big because I struggle to get most students like him to say "yes" or "no."

Every time I see him he shouts his head off and waves and giggles.  I laugh too because he makes teaching all worth it.  Students who respond to me are the reason I'm coming back.  My friends talk about getting all their best students together and how great that class would be.  But I would lose the kids who would name themselves Mr. Cat. And what would be the reason for me to come back?

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Thank you, Teacher, by Cynthia Berning & Rachel Kraft

At the end of their school year in Huarong, Cynthia and Rachel teamed up to videotape each other's students in a tear-jerking farewell.  Have tissues handy!

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6920396594495186973 (Cynthia's class)
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3326688642794619325 (Rachel's class)

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Lessons from China, by Lauren Keister

Written special to The Baltimore Sun. Copyright 2007, The Baltimore Sun.

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Newlyweds, by Margaret & Miller Harris

Volunteering as newlyweds through WorldTeach, with its unique set of both rewards and challenges, has been an investment not only in our host school, but also in our marriage. For my wife and me, our engagement period coincided with our senior year of college. During this time, the idea of a shared experience volunteering side-by-side began to grow on us. And if we were going to volunteer for a year, we decided: Why not do it in a part of the world we’ve never seen? About this time, a WorldTeach staff member came to both of our campuses to put on an informational meeting. It seemed to be exactly what we were looking for. Still, we had to decide whether graduating college, getting married, and moving to a foreign country would be too much for one year.

In the midst of making this decision, there was one piece of advice we received that tipped the balance in favor of WorldTeach. We were advised that a healthy marriage looks less like two people standing toe-to-toe with eyes fixed upon each other and more like two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder with eyes fixed on a common horizon. As it turns out, the move to China as WorldTeach volunteers has been an important part of that steady horizon for us during a year of change. WorldTeach found us a place to live here and the monthly stipend we receive covers all our expenses plus some travel. Though the move was a bit drastic so soon after graduating and getting married, we knew it would have only become harder to leave the States the more time we had to establish roots.

The most rewarding aspect of our WorldTeach experience so far is clear: time together. When we’re both teaching, we know that the other is doing the same thing close by. Occasionally, we’re even asked by our school or some outside party to team-teach a special class. Outside of class, we’re together either reading, exercising, studying Chinese, lesson planning, meeting new people, exploring the city, watching a movie, or perhaps planning an excursion for our next holiday. Above all these activities, however, just the experience of navigating a new culture together—one in which we’re the strangers—has been the most bonding of all.

The biggest challenges this year have been the lack of couple friends and the distance from family. No matter how much Chinese we learn or how good the English is of those around us, there just isn’t the level of comfort that exists between friends from home. In our WorldTeach group, there’s definitely a collegiate feel—most people graduated within the last three years. Amongst our group of 59 volunteers, we are one of two married couples. Having said this, however, both our host school and our fellow volunteers have all been extremely supportive. Our host school actually preferred a married couple because they only have one apartment designated for foreign teachers.

As for our relationships with other WorldTeach volunteers, we’ve found the group to be so diverse already that the presence of two married couples was no problem for anyone to get used to. In regard to the separation from family, there have certainly been both pros and cons. The hardest part has been spending holidays away from home. Then again, at least we didn’t have to decide whose parents to spend them with. Furthermore, as newlyweds, this forced separation from home has facilitated the creation of our own independent family—one with new norms and new horizons.

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