August 13, 2009

I was stressing out big time before the start of this second session of teaching. The night before the class was to start, we still didn’t know the expectations the college had for us, except that out of the 50 enrollees (yes, 50), we were to select the 30 who would be permitted to go forward with the All-English business program. How we were to do that, what our hours were to be, what BCBUU’s expectations of us would be--none of that was clear.

Everything turned out all right--we met with the Director of the English Program just as we arrived Tuesday morning. We got the scoop on the college’s expectations and we got a schedule: we have a couple of eight-hour days of teaching, and the other days rotate between 8-11:30 and 1:30-5:00. We entered the HUGE (seats 360) lecture hall on to find 57 students waiting for us. Whew. Luckily they were mostly seated in the first eight or nine rows, so we were able to hear and be heard. Kacie and I began, using parts of the lessons we had prepared for the first session and adding, subtracting, revising as we went.

College teaching is done these days by Powerpoint, in case I’ve not mentioned that before. (All the nursing classes at Riv were done so--90% adaptations of the textbook companies’ powerpoints. We have been developing our own.) Kacie gave the students an assignment the first night--an activity well-known to teachers the world over as a getting-to-know-you/first week of school gambit--bring in a bag with three items that reveal what kind of person you are, and be ready to explain them (in English) to the other students at your table. She had a little brown bag and demonstrated with a seashell (from Australia) because she likes to travel, a tie-dyed headband (she wears it to rock concerts), and a photo of herself and her best friend.

So yesterday we got to class and discovered that most of the students had brought some kind of bag--a plastic shopping bag or a tote of some kind--with items ranging from team photos to kitschy Great Wall souvenirs. A few were digging things out of their backpacks, feigning preparation. I walked up on one young man (the one who always wants to answer every question, ignoring the other 56 in the class) who was holding up a pocket package of tissue (toilet paper is not provided in many public facilities in China) & was explaining to his seat mates that this item is very important to him because sometimes he needs to...wipe.

Big sigh. I guess kids are the same world over. And teachers’ dirty looks work as well, too. I said nothing and moved on to another table.

All of this explains the origin of my wicked sore neck and shoulders. I seem to hold tension in my muscles instead of screaming and stomping my feet as I really want to do. So by Tuesday, my muscles were caterwauling and I was treading lightly, fearing jolts of sharp pain would knock me over on the street. (This is not a new phenomenon, but at home I regularly see my dear friends Emma--massage therapist--and Deb--acupuncturist--who keep the replacement of living tissue with spikes of steel at bay.) So at Ying’s recommendation, I gave up my thrice-weekly foot massage for a visit to a real Chinese massage doctor. Some of my ex-pat friends have been telling me that they visit one regularly, and the most important thing to know going in is the word “Tong!”--”PAIN!”

Wow. During just the initial assessment, this guy (Dr. Wang) found points on my neck, shoulders, and spine for acupressure/massage that I didn’t know existed. He spoke only a few words in English, but Ying had come with me for the first few minutes while he did his evaluation and he talked to her. He could help, but I would need to come back a few times. I agreed to do anything. She left, and he did his work, speaking a few words of English now and then: “Madam, forgive me for asking, but how old are you?” I told him my age and that I am a teacher. (“Wo shi laoshi” is one of my few Mandarin phrases that people can comprehend when I say it.) He said, “You are tired, very tired” and I thought, “No shit.” I did want him to say something like, “But for a 61-year old exhausted retired American teacher working at one last teaching gig as a way to live & work in China for the summer and seeking employment as a registered nurse, you have an amazingly resilient body which will be restored to perfect health and youthful vitality after a few Chinese miracle treatments.” He didn’t.

Dr. Wang did jab and poke and roll and squeeze and start to loosen up some of the muscles (steel to concrete is the image.) I had another appointment the next day. Same procedure, but at the end the doctor said, “Oil massage.” I’ll go for anything, so made the appointment for Thursday afternoon. Another man did this, which included oil in quantities I thought were used only for--the only thing I can compare it to is how very buttery & slippery I remember my hands getting when I was in third grade at a taffy-pulling party. I mean, I was sliding around on the paper sheet, wearing my paper shorty p.j.’s as the guy used not only a quart of oil, but also heated jade stones (the size of baked potatoes) wherever he was about to massage. I’ve never had a massage by a man before and thought I would hate it and be nervous, but he was discreet and his hands and that heat really did relax those muscles. He didn’t speak any English so there was no chatter, and I kept my eyes shut--I actually fell asleep at one point. By the time I left, I had no pain anywhere. I felt rubbery. I have another appointment in five days. An hour’s appointment with the doc was 100Y ($14) and the 1.5 hour massage was 150.(Remember, the average school teacher earns 3000Y/$438 per month.)

One more thing to talk about: a concert at China National Center for the Performing Arts, an astonishing new facility next to Tiananmen Square on Chang’an Avenue. The architecture is ultramodern--an egg-shaped, moat-surrounded dome with no visible entrances (they are underground--you walk under the moat) and three extraordinary performance spaces. Ying’s dad had secured tickets for Kacie and me to a concert of the Hong Kong Diocesan School Boys’ Choir (part of a choral festival going on). What a treat! Those 72 adolescent boys were incredibly cool (and preppy: I loved it) in their charcoal trousers, striped ties, and blue blazers. Their singing--pieces ranging from Cantique de Jean Racine (one of my most beloved favorites) to Soldiers’ Vehicles, a clanging Socialist-realism interpretation of China facing the world, to Alexander’s Ragtime Band. I was beside myself with joy. Aside from the gorgeous architecture, amazing musicianship, delightful musical selections, how cool was it to have the explanations in both Mandarin and British-accented English? I was smiling mightily as we were leaving, and a distinguished-looking man caught my eye. “Enjoy the performance?” he asked, and I said “It was absolutely delightful.” “I am the Headmaster,” he replied, bursting with pride. I congratulated & thanked him. For more about the building, check out its official web site: http://www.chncpa.org/n457779/n457899/index.html.

Saturday night is Kacie’s going-away party. (She leaves Monday morning, and I will finish teaching this second session alone. I also will do the third group (only 20) by myself, but am not worried about that.) The party will be at a famous Beijing night spot “Tango,” a Karaoke palace. I will be the only one there over...40 (Ying’s parents were invited, but declined, citing their age, even though they are younger than I am!) The party won’t be wild--half of the guests are as abstemious as I am--but I still very well might slip out after the first hour and head towards a rendezvous with some of my contemporaneous ex-pat friends.

I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for reading!

Love,
Chris