In a two second burst, Janice shattered two hours of hurriedly cobbled lesson plans the moment I stole into the teacher's lounge. Still, my coteacher's greeting wasn't half as welcome as the fresh pot of local honey and the inscrutibly smiling Moon Cake that greeted me upon my desk. By some chance coincidence of the 2011 Lunar calendar, Teacher's day and the Mid – Autumn festival coincided, and the four day weekend born of their timely union toppled our usually stalwart schedule. Thus, this friday would not be spent in the classroom, but in the schoolyard, gobbling moon cakes and watching the seventh and tenth graders perform military drills. We foreign teachers would then share a formal lunch with the head principals, and enjoy the rest of the day to ourselves. The day would not be typical, but I am beginning to suspect that in Xi'an, 'typical' goes without translation.
Consider the weather. The first four days we were in Xi'an, the rain came down in stultifying sheets. Jason Thomas, a three year veteran of the Bodi school and fellow expat, had hardly seen weather so severe. “It hardly ever rains in Xi'an,” he stammered, as dumbfounded and bone soaked as us foreigners. Lacking any semblance of adequate rain gear, Janice and I stumbled to class on tractionless flip – flops, huddled under Jason's plaid, wind weary umbrella. When we toured the city for necessary supplies, I barely got a glimpse of the surroundings. From the rickshaw motorcade, it all seemed a grey soppy mess, as jumbled and confusing as Mandarin characters to my American brain.
I can be forgiven for my jangled first impression. Xi'an is enormous, and incredibly difficult for a foreigner to navigate. Bustling with over eight million people, the city boasts no subway, trolley, or tram system to speak of. Throughout the week, we were ferried about in a multitude of three dollar cabs, or packed sardine tight into seven cent busses, fighting for space as well as for air. It takes an aspiring urbanite forty-five minutes to get to the city center from our suburban compound, and god help you if you forget your toilet paper. Four days of torrential rain coupled with and an easily overwhelmed drainage system meant that travel in the rain was in increasingly dicey proposition. Thus, the first few days I spent virtually marooned within my compound, wondering why I came to China, and furthermore, what China was in the first place.
But I knew friday was different when I marched out into the practice yard. Tenth graders clad in camouflage clapped in unison to a recorded fanfare on the school's PA as the spectacle unfolded. Communist Party soldiers and officials looked on from the side as their flag waved fitfully overhead in scarlet and gold. The students had been groomed all week for this moment, and the clouds above respected their efforts, mercifully withholding fire for the first time since our arrival. After some inscrutable speeches, the girls marched in formation into the practice yard, fanning out into the four directions and weaving in a synchronized ballet of t'ai chi. The boys followed with a tightly honed display of karate, followed by military rolls, marches, and shouts of “HIYAH! HUH! HAH!” wed to every motion. Then the students stepped aside and the teachers were ushered forward. I stood to the side at first but was quickly nudged into line. I had been there less than a week, but I too apparently had my part to play in the pageantry.
As teachers both native and foreign filed into the square, first and second graders poured forth, eyes bright, mouths grinning, the traditional red flowers of teacher's day clutched tightly in hand. They flitted about the faculty like hummingbirds, pollinating each teacher with a blossom and hastily skittering to their seats. I stood a full head taller than most of my teachers, so I could see the bee-line the skinny, pale skinned girl made for my place in line as she bypassed five rows of local teachers to give me her scarlet, long-stemmed bloom. I smiled as I took the flower and soon enough, my fellow teachers received their own. But students kept coming with flowers, and it looked like they were running out of teachers gift. And then a little round – faced boy handed me his blossom. And then another student came up from the side. And then another. And another, and another...
By the time it was over my bouquet comprised nine flowers, each tied with a ribbon and sheathed in heart spackled cellophane. My own students were laughing at me and I waved to them like a royal, basted in my gratitude like Miss America on a turkey day float. They smiled and laughed all the harder, and I laughed too. I was a happy show pony, all prances and struts and smiles. But I had come to realize that as a foreigner, such outlandish behavior was virtually expected of me, and that understanding couldn't diminish my glee.
I joke that I felt like a show pony, but in Xi'an, such sentiments are stabled in truth. In China, white is beautiful. Students often shun the sun in their trips between classes, skirting through the practice yards like Puritans beneath their cowls or Victorians under their parasols, for fear of getting a tan. And with my blond hair, blue eyes, and preturnaturally alabaster skin, I'm the whitest horse in town.
My skin color was not lost on me at the faculty luncheon that followed. Talking with principal Joe and the staff, I was given an embarrassing amount of attention, despite the fact that what little Mandarin I knew essentially amounted to the numbers one to a hundred and “we drink beer!” (Phonetically: 'Woe man euh pee jee-yo,' more or less. I can also order a bubble tea at KFC, inquire as to the location of a rest room, and inadvertently insult your ancestors in a thousand hilarious ways. Note that though I'm learning the spoken language, in terms of writing or reading, I'm functionally illiterate.)
At lunch, the principal and his staff lavished attention on me, marveling no doubt at my unprecedented ability to wield chopsticks one-handed and speak in smiling blond American sentences. I like principal Joe. He spent some time in New York, and cotaught a course on traditional Chinese poetry at Columbia in the 80s. He's every bit the Chinese businessman, with a strict attitude and attention to detail belied by his ingratiating demeanor. He's also unsubtly hilarious, and like a prizefighter, will suddenly close to within an inch of your face before delivering a punchline, erupting in spasms of laughter. Then, in an instant, he'll rise in serious business mode once more, espousing the integrity of the school and the need for discipline and academic rigor. Smiles and frowns, handshakes and performance reviews. For all his idiosyncracies, he's still a principal. I must remember that. And for all mine, I'm still a teacher.
My co-teacher, a Chinese - American born in Beijing, was less of a sideshow than I. Then again, Janice could converse with the faculty in their native tongue while observing all due decorum of Chinese society. When principal Joe did mention her in English, it was to praise her sterling credentials before telling me about his translation of the Tao Te Ching. Janice, a literature major at university, could've chimed in at any time. But she let me enjoy the limelight, prefering instead to chat with faculty about the particulars of the Bodi school, and generally acting as the go – between for us both.
Janice is wonderful. Without her help this past week I would have been just another puddle on the rain soaked pavement. Janice began teaching me Mandarin off the plane in Shanghai, and has kept at it unflinchingly as I've mangled consonant after consonant, slowly gaining a familiarity with the Mandarin tones. Janice diligently lesson plans, creating new worksheets and homework for her classes and making sure our American curriculum is deeply rooted in the reality of Xi'an. Janice taught ESL for two and a half years in college, eight SAT courses with Revolution, and tutored many others besides in the SATs, ACTs, and various exotic admissions exams. Janice seemed surprised at how much her students praised and recommended her in her Revolution profile, but I for one am not. She's an incredibly diligent teacher, and amid the hubbub of urban Chinese life, inspires me to be the same.
That's about all for today – I'll talk more about the Chinese night life after I have another dose. Last evening I jammed out to the Beatles with two Chinese singer/guitarists at a popular downtown hostel – we actually found a working three part harmony on “I'm in love with her and I feel fine,” and my rendition of “Stand by me” won me a free beer. I was also an egregious, giddy tourist in the Muslim quarter, sampled street food, bartered for knicknacks, and tried out the Chinese club scene at the aptly named Fantasy (and yes, in case you were wondering, they know dubstep). It's been a wild first week. Though I still don't know what China is, at least I know why I came.
