I am reading one of the best-known books written by a foreigner about China. It’s called Red Star Over China and was authored by an American journalist named Edgar Snow. Snow smuggled himself into “Red China” – that swath of territory controlled by the fledgling Communist Party as it fought Japanese invaders and a civil war against Chinese nationalists simultaneously. It was the 1930s, another world war was brewing, and Snow risked life and limb to meet the makers of modern China, including one Chairman Mao who then, as a simple patriot and egalitarian, preached seemingly innocuous isms. On a visit to the Red Academy where young patriotic minds went to be politicized, militarized, and revolutionized, Snow was unexpectedly asked to participate in a Q and A session with some cadets. In exchange for a “noodle dinner,” Snow “succumbed” and found himself beyond his scope trying to answer impossibly difficult questions about world affairs as they related to China.
Reading this got me thinking about a similar experience that I had, albeit one that occurred in a highly different set of circumstances. It began as a fishing trip for me. I had seen people fishing on a few occasions while traveling around China – that area formerly known as “Red China,” precisely – and it seemed fairly standard. Nevertheless, I let boundless imagination persuade me that perhaps my fishing trip was destined for some sequestered cove hidden inside industrial China where colors were more vivid and sounds of nature went undisturbed. I pictured a blue sky without a construction crane in sight.
I met my hosts, a local primary school teacher named Zhang Lei and her husband, at the gate of the college. We drove for maybe twenty minutes to the outskirts of a small village and got out. The surrounding area consisted of a valley of farmland dotted with a few greenhouses. The weather was fantasy-inducing gorgeous. Now imagine the sigh I held back as I was lead through a metal gate entrance to a small cement-bottom pool filled with murky water. The fish imprisoned inside were on a hunger strike, but made every conceivable effort to jump out of this unnatural habitat. We gave up after thirty fruitless minutes and drove to the local primary school where Zhang Lei’s friend taught. There I was treated to much more than a “noodle dinner” and then, in my sated state, was asked if I would like to “talk to the students.”
“Uh… How many students?” I asked.
“Not many. They are waiting in the classroom.” Note, they are already gathered and waiting for me.
“I’m not going to teach them a lesson,” I more or less pleaded.
“No. No. No. They only want to communicate with you,” they assured me. But in this context there were no assurances. “Communicate” might mean leading a gaggle of trembling snot-noses in reading a long list of vocabulary words, or I could be asked to sing the lyrics of one of those popular English songs I’ve never even heard of, like “Yesterday Once More.” Yet I’ve become something of an appeaser, so I stopped delaying what I was clearly bound to do.
I was led down a dirt path, dark and wet from the morning rain. It may have been drizzling still. And, as it happens, I began to get excited to stand in front of I don’t know how many curiously quirky kids. Realization has taught me that I don’t particularly like the moment when I’m being asked to play the foreigner role, but that doesn’t mean I won’t get kicks while doing it. In a musty classroom cross the courtyard, kids and teenagers representing a range of grade levels and stages of hormonal development were waiting. There were at least forty of them sitting, standing, kneeling, shoulder to hip to shoulder, wall to wall, in that thirty by thirty room. Edgar Snow had sat opposite revolutionary guerilla soldiers in a hideaway cave turned academy, and here I was facing the schoolyard mob, full of anticipation.
What follows are not the answers I returned to the students, but rather a combination of real-time thoughts and reflection. This is how a Q and A commences:
“What’s your name?”
It was a good question to start with and well-rehearsed. I wrote four letters on the chalkboard and demonstrated their collective sound. Often mistaken as “Look” and “Luck”, I told the students to match the sound of the vowel in “blue.” My name is Luke.
“How old are you?”
Guess… Not that young! Not that old! You must be joking! Almost! I’m 24 years old.
“Where are you from?”
A few gasps leaked out when I said “America” as if there was something exotic about it. Maybe there is; indeed, what is America to a child whose way of life is founded in 5,000 years of rigid tradition, whose home amenities do not include a refrigerator, plumbing, or running water, but whose television set introduces him to American corporations and describes to her the events surrounding another fatal shooting? Americans are truly loaded – with money, with bullets. What species is this to have an armory of guns at home and wallets stuffed with hundred dollar bills or bars of gold or whatever Americans use to buy happiness in those artsy throw-away to-go cups?
“Why did you come to China?”
Let’s be frank: I came for selfish reasons, and those reasons have only been confirmed with time. Coming from the Land of Opportunity, I, like many, took the opportunity to leave for land abroad. China fascinated me, and it still does. She is old and wrinkled and at times ornery, but spritely and in the current leg of the race running faster than our Stars and Stripes. Her gift is guile, her tongue is sharp and rapid, and she comes and goes unannounced. Dignified in public, she privately underestimates herself. I accepted the fool’s errand and came to teach her English for two years in exchange for residing with, and learning of, her through and through. I am doing what I came to do, and every day I understand her better. What little she may remember of English, she undoubtedly knows at least one honest American she can call a true friend. I trust that this relationship with bear fruit in the future.
“Do you like China?”
I dissect the formation of the question and chuckle at its either-or anatomy, as if I’m going to tell this inveterate young patriot that, in fact, I do not like his country. China does give me reason to complain, no doubt. Littering is prolific and a blight to the gorgeous natural landscapes. It’s surprising that in such a proud country so many plastic bags and bottles are thrown to the breeze, each one sadly differentiating attitudes toward motherland and Mother Nature. This is one habit that vexes my sensibilities. Another is publicly potty-training toddlers, especially when they make eye-contact. There’s nothing adorable about it. Sometimes the only choice is toleration; other times I must adapt. For instance, I’d be a starved sucker if I followed single file queuing protocols in China. After a few trips to the mess hall I learned to earn my rice like a member of the pack.
Yes, some days I like China. To pinpoint a few novelties and say, “this is why I like China,” would make a fine travel brochure, but fail to capture my interests or experience. China is intriguing in part because of its unabashed communal nature. A man getting a tooth pulled next to where you buy bananas, or a stranger offering you the chair they were sitting on while you wait for a bus – these are stark proofs that evaporate one’s contrived sense of isolation from the lives of others. In a way, I’ve enjoyed being thrown to the proverbial wolves. There can be many awkward and clumsy moments between the good ones, but no matter what I go through I would never rather be insulated from it all.
“In a word,” my students are fond of saying, “every coin has two sides.”
“Do you like Chinese food?”
Love it, and always will, but the more I eat of it the more I sanctify burgers with cheese. Around here there’s an abundance of delicious food, but a dearth of variety. Ask a student what their favorite food is and they will invariably reply (A) rice or (B) noodles (in English as well as Chinese). It’s an annoying simplification, but it’s also quite telling. Image, my Mid-Westerners, alternating between chicken noodle soup and hot dish, hot dish and chicken noodle soup, an endless pattern only now and then interrupted by fondue (hot pot, that is). You can get your noodles served two ways: fried or in soup, and with a few different ingredient options. A variety of dishes are served with rice, all of which consist of fried vegetables with or without meat, eggs, or tofu.
As I let students act the chef in my kitchen, I’ve noted my observations and learned that Chinese cuisine is fundamentally a healthy dose of oil, high temperatures, and lots of spices and salt. If I’m oversimplifying things, I’m not off by much. Nevertheless, using these simple techniques, the Chinese can concoct some amazing feasts. A personal favorite is 回锅肉 (twice-cooked pork, or “return to pot meat” if you prefer your translations literal).
“Can you speak Chinese?”
会一点。不少中国人认为外国人都不能说汉语。在我经历里，证明自己会说汉语不容易的。例如，一天阿姨听到我说的普通话然后夸奖我。她说“你的普通话很不错。”我感谢了她。然后她问我的中国朋友关于我是哪国人，我做什么工作，等等。学普通话很困难，不过它不是魔术，我的中国友人。
“What’s the difference between America and China?”
Well! Have you ever drank cold water or thought outside the box? Two cultures couldn’t be more different. Take these pithy juxtapositions for starters: One is like petrified wood that remembers what it was like to be an acorn, the other a cross-bred hound that can’t figure out which scent it wants to track. Whereas it’s admirable in America to be different, Chinese desire to fit in. Americans ask the question, Chinese memorize the answer. I would go on, but I’ve suddenly lost the scent.
“What are the problems of Chinese education?”
I was quite happy and hopeful to be asked this question, but then, instantly reminded of the forum in which it was asked, reckoned the weight of my words would be rather slight. There were no officials or puppets of any variety present through which this volunteer could ventriloquize. One opinion I do hold, relevant to my audience at the time, is that it would be exponentially more useful to allow foreign teachers such as me to teach at the primary level. By the time a student arrives in my university classroom they’ve been influenced by years and years of reinforced errors that went unnoticed by the Chinese teacher. I could dedicate two whole years to correcting all the pronunciation and grammar problems plaguing my students and not make an inch of forward progress; although, I would count that a valuable undertaking.
Early on as a teacher I thought not only do my students need me to teach them English, but they also need me to teach them how to learn. That’s what I inferred as I watched them respond to my style of teaching. In my experience, Chinese students are that man in the proverb to whom a fish is given, but who does not learn the art of fishing. I imagine an analogy where my instructions, activities, and feedback are looked upon as so many colorful lures whose application is a mystery to the silent pupils starving for want of initiative. Boil it down and I think you will find that most or all problems related to Chinese education result from students not being taught how to learn. Case in point:
“How to study English?”
My favorite question. It’s a direct translation from Chinese, which tells me that a grammar book is in need. I usually get snarky when answering this question because I think, I suppose, that it’s an effective way to break the illusion that learning English is a magic trick that’s solvable through a series of tricks. I remind students that when they were born they couldn’t speak Chinese. They concur. I ask them to explain how they learned Chinese. They tell me. “That’s how you learn English,” I say.
Sometime before the Q and A session reached a conclusion I was asked to introduce President Obama. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I do recall that no one in that room but me understood the significance of what it meant to be the first black president. On the other hand, no one quibbled about a birth certificate. I’m a long way from home.
Or am I…
“Whose your favorite basketball player?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Do you like Kobe?”
“No, not really.”
“Why?”
“He’s a very good basketball player, but I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“Uh… He’s not a good person.”
“He isn’t? Why?”
“He’s an arrogant asshole who apologizes with his paycheck.”
“He’s the best.”
luke|kretchmer 