Yes China! An English Teacher's Love-Hate Relationship with a Foreign Country

YES CHINA!

An English Teacher’s Love-Hate Relationship with a Foreign Country

by

Clark Nielsen

Copyright 2011 Clark Nielsen

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER 1 - THIS WAS A BAD IDEA

Oh, shit, I said to myself, thinking a solid cuss would be a great way to start a book. The bells of my new school in China had just rung, and my stomach was twisting into a knot at the sound of noisy Chinese children running down the hall.

The other three foreign teachers didn’t seem as nervous as I was while we waited in our opening room—a prison-like box with barred windows, broken lights, and black footprints all over the walls—but then I think this was all a game to them. It had been a game to me, too, until I realized I was actually going to have to teach. Too bad it took this long for the realization to finally set in. The moment that first mass of nine-year olds spewed through the door, I knew I was in way over my head.

Teacha’! Teacha’! they called, waving to us and forming nice, orderly lines.

I smiled at first, because they were all so cute, while I tried to forget the fact that I was only 21 and had no prior teaching experience. Those were thoughts I needed to keep in the back of my mind, back with the other useless information I stored there, like how often you should change the box of baking soda that sits in the refrigerator. Wait… how often are you supposed to change it? Ah, who cares. That information wasn’t going to help me now. Nothing could help me now.

One of the girls stood in front of me, held my hand, and said, My want be in your class!

If that was the first thing a Chinese kid was going to say to me, then this was going to be a great five months! But the kids kept coming, kept piling through the door and adding to the lines that were already getting too long for the room. We were only expecting 25-30 students. By the time they were all in, there must have been sixty kids in that room. This wasn’t going to work. Our opening session was designed to settle the kids down with simple games and songs, but there was no way in hell we could do anything with this big of a group. They started shoving and pushing and punching and kicking and screaming and coordinating a missile strike right there in the classroom.

All right, everyone, let’s play Red Rover, Red Rover! one of the other teachers suggested, albeit desperately.

Two or three kids hurrahed and lined up to play, but the rest were too busy slugging each other or playing with Yu-Gi-Oh cards. Appalled, I watched the colored shapes the teachers and I had taped to the floor to show the kids where to sit tear off underneath all of the shuffling sneakers. I was too overwhelmed to rescue the helpless shapes, though. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. I just stood there with my mouth opening and closing like a dummy without a ventriloquist.

Another teacher finally confronted me, Take some of these kids to your classroom! Go! Now!

I snapped out of my trance, obeyed her orders, and escorted twelve of the kids outside. I hoped that getting them away from everyone else would calm them down. I clearly knew nothing about children. The second we got to my personal classroom, it went from pandemonium to the day after Thanksgiving at Walmart. They would not stop fighting each other! I basically played referee for fifteen minutes, breaking up fight after fight after fight until it became a conditioned pattern.

Realizing I had stuff in my pockets, I quickly pulled out some photographs of my home and family and yelled, Hey! Pictures! Come look!

This got the kids’ attention. As I sat on the floor, they huddled in a circle around me, pawing and grabbing and pushing to get a look at what I had. One girl kept poking the acne on the back of my neck. Somebody else kept trying to stand on my lap. Okay, new plan. I dug into my pockets again, withdrew a handful of salt water taffy, and dumped them on the floor like chicken feed.

Look! Candy! It’s from America! I wailed.

The candy was gone before I could even explain to them what it was. The kids sat back and quietly chomped, trying to figure out what this new, strange taste was. Some of the kids gave me a thumbs up, saying, Very good! Others spat the candy on the floor, spraying pink cinnamon taffy everywhere. Well, the candy didn’t last long.

Now that I had nothing else to give them, they started fighting again.

Hey! Let’s play a game! How about—

A boy punched me in the groin before I could finish. I gave up, slunk to the corner, curled into a ball, and rocked back and forth until the bell rang ten minutes later. The kids disappeared in a hurry, but I remained, beaten and on the verge of crying. I felt awful. I felt like I just lost my life savings in the stock market, a close friend died, and I stubbed my toe. How could I have been so naïve to think this was a good idea, that this was going to be fun? I already dreaded tomorrow.

In all fairness, that first day was a test. Our head teacher purposefully sent us into the bull pen without any materials so we would understand the importance of being prepared. Gee, thanks. Lesson learned, jerk face. I knew the next day would go better, though, because I went to class armed with a whistle, a better selection of candy, an actual lesson plan about fun things to do with ABC blocks, and the mindset that no Chinese kid was going to get the best of me. Not today. Not this time.

We’d lost a few students from the day before, which made our opening session marginally less chaotic, and taking ten students to my classroom instead of twelve already felt like a huge improvement. Before I started the lesson with them, however, I had the kids line up against the wall. We were going to go over the rules first. There would be rules, damn it! But, having spotted the bucket of ABC blocks on the table behind me, the kids weren’t interested in rules. They kept dashing over to the table to get a head start on the fun.

I blew my whistle, waved my finger menacingly, and shouted, Hey! I didn’t say sit down. We have to go over the rules. We can’t play until you guys know the rules. Another blow on the whistle. Hey, hey, hey! Don’t push! Stop pushing! Here, Alyssa, have a piece of candy. Thanks for being so good.

Whoa! Candy! That got everyone’s attention. They suddenly straightened up, crossed one arm in front of their chest, and put the other arm on top to form a well-disciplined L. They waited for their candy.

Now that I had their attention, I began my lecture, Okay, before we do anything, we need to go over the rules. What’s Rule #1?

One student protested, Teacha’! You give candy Alyssa but you no give candy me!

That’s because you weren’t being good. Alyssa was being good. Now what’s Rule #1?

You bad teacha’, he grumbled.

Okay… What’s Rule #1?

No Chinese! they screamed in unison.

That’s right. No Chinese. What’s Rule #2?

No Chinese!

No… Rule #2 is to stay in your chair.

Everybody scrambled over to the chairs to sit down.

Come back. Come back. I didn’t say sit down. Now we have to start over. What’s Rule #1?

Less enthusiastic this time, they groaned, No Chinese…

What’s Rule #2?

Stay in your chair…

Good! And what’s Rule #3?

They had nothing.

Rule #3 is no hitting, kicking, and pushing.

Eh? they all said like they were hard of hearing.

No hitting, kicking, and pushing.

Eh?!

No hitting… I pretended to hit someone. Kicking… I pretended to kick someone. Pushing… I pretended to push someone.

They thought that was pretty funny. It was so funny, in fact, they had to try it out themselves and started pushing and kicking and hitting each other. I blew the whistle and started from the beginning at Rule #1. And this went on and on, restarting at #1 and going over the rules again, because the students wouldn’t cooperate. Rule #3 wound them up every time. Now if I was smart, I would have omitted that last rule altogether and dealt with the consequences. I wasn’t feeling smart, though. I didn’t know how to handle these kids! And before I knew it, our 25 minutes were up. It was time to rotate students.

I was the official rotator that day. My job was to move each set of students to their next teacher and finally end up back in my room with a new batch of little monsters. Our head teacher suggested having the kids hold onto a rope as a way to keep them in line during transit. I tried this rope trick, but the kids just choked each other with it and fought over who got to be in front.

Teacha’! My numba’ one!

No, my numba’ one!

"Eh. Eh. Eh. My numba’ one!"

As we marched down the hallways, I turned around and barked, "Look, I’m number one, okay? Everybody else is number 100!"

No, my numba’ 100! they started.

The next teacher looked quite relieved to get rid of her students and take mine. Her hair was frizzled and her face flushed, and it was all she could do to utter, Hi, when I came knocking. Little did she know she was actually trading down.

One of her students had a broken leg, though. It was already broken! His teacher didn’t do that. And since he didn’t have crutches, I had to carry him on my back to the next classroom. He quickly found the whistle hanging from my neck and started blowing on it in my ear. As if I wasn’t already miserable, the kids behind me were losing interest in the rope and were starting to hit, kick, and push each other, their favorite thing to do in the whole world.

In a weak attempt to restore order, I started chanting, Follow me! Follow me!

Follow me! the kids yelled as loud as they could.

Follow me!

Follow me!

Follow me!

Follow me!

We walked by a foreign teacher’s classroom from a different grade level. His students looked like they were playing in a ball pit at McDonald’s… except there weren’t any balls… and the teacher didn’t want them playing in it. Right then, my energy dropped six levels, and I thought to myself, What have I gotten myself into?

Back in my own classroom, when the students finally did get to the ABC blocks, my lesson didn’t go as well as I had hoped. I was using the International Language Program’s teaching methodology, so lessons involved many drawn-out, unnecessary steps filled with language-rich, interactive instructions. It wasn’t really about the activity; it was about getting the kids to speak English. I’d read their manual cover-to-cover and felt like I understood what was expected of me as an ILP volunteer. Now that I was finally in this position, however, I found it wasn’t so easy to hold up a block and say, What is this?

Nobody bothered to answer. They all grabbed their own ABC block to play with. I blew the whistle. Half the kids put their blocks back, but the others ignored me. I confiscated everyone’s blocks, put them in the bucket, and sealed the lid.

Do we need to start over? I threatened.

They all groaned, No, Teacha’!

Okay. I took another block out. What is this?

B!

Yes, that’s right, it says B on it, but what is this thing?

It’s B!

"Right… this is a B, but what is this?!" I asked again, shaking the block.

Ooh, ooh! I know, Teacha’! I know! I know!

Okay, Frank, what is it?

B.

"Yes, that’s right, it says B on it. I think we established that. I put it away and picked up a block that didn’t have any letters on it. What’s this?"

A box!

"Well… kind of. It’s a block. What is it? I waited for them to answer, but no one did, so I repeated, It’s a block. I have a block. How many blocks do I have?"

One!

That’s right. I have one block. Do you have a block?

No!

You do not have a block. Max, does Paul have a block?

No, Teacha’, he said solemnly, already on boredom and thinking about moving to the next level: mischief.

Paul does not have a block, I said, hoping somebody would repeat it. I was already getting sick of talking. I gave the block to Frank. Now Frank has a block. Do you have a block, Frank?

He wasn’t paying attention. He got his block. He was done with me and was now trying to spin it on the desk.

Frank. Frank. Frank! Do you have a block?

He muttered something in Chinese.

Uh oh, Frank. What’s Rule #1?

He didn’t care. And neither did the other students at this point. They started taking their own blocks from the bucket to spin or to throw or to chew on. I looked at my watch. Damn it, I still had ten minutes with these kids! And then the real weight of the situation sunk in. Damn it, I still had five months with these kids! I couldn’t do this for five months. I wanted to go home.

CHAPTER 2 - FOUR YEARS LATER

I found myself standing nervously in front of a primary class of fifty Chinese students. They were about 7-8 years old, all eager to meet the new foreigner, while their Chinese teacher sat in the back of the room and wrote down my every move in her notebook. I had to clear my throat many times before managing a weak, Hello…

Hello, hello, hello! the children called back, bouncing in their seats and trying to refrain from jumping over the desks and tearing me to shreds. Hello, hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello, hello, hello! Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello! Hello!

While they echoed the same greeting, probably the first chance many of them have had to say hello to a real foreigner, I started having doubts about coming back to China to teach. If the events in the last chapter were any indication, teaching English wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It was more like a walk in a bear-ridden forest with slabs of meat stapled to your arms and legs. As