On the second day of pre-orientation – what, you thought one was enough? – we finally meet some of the teachers who have taught at IK-12 before.
We don’t meet them immediately, though. First we have to survive another episode of the Red Tea Show. Red Tea asks how we enjoyed yesterday’s session, which elicits grumbling and yawns. She smile, and explains what happened in yesterday’s session, in case we forgot yesterday. Her assistant walks the aisles, snapping pictures of us with a camera from a previous decade. I feel like I’m in a cage – like a rat in a cage, in spite of all my rage. (He who has hears to hear, let him rock the fuck out.)
The lectures today cover a lot of the same ground. A Chinese teacher takes the stage and shows us some clips of Are Our Kids Tough Enough? Red Tea laughs, and tells the teacher that she (Red Tea) showed us the same clips yesterday; and the other teacher laughs too. Then they show us the clips. I’ve been in China something like 60 hours, and my conception of cause and effect is wilting.
But eventually, returning Western teachers take the stage to make presentations. I am hoping these presentations will be on the subject, “This is what’s happening to you and why; here are some good reasons not to panic about your life choices!” But the subjects are pretty conventional. A blonde woman with a strained smile tells us how to manage a classroom – “You’re not their friend, you’re their teacher,” she explains. Another teacher with a delightful Welsh accent tells us about the youngest students: “They’re just so lovely, and so cute, and they just want to learn.” (I have met children before, and in fact used to be a child, and I’m not sure about that last part.)
Tom Collins, who has been pretty stoic thus far, gets a little restless. “It’s all right if you’ve never set foot in a classroom before,” he grumbles. Indeed, there does seem to be a lot of instruction in the very basics of teaching – manage your time; don’t allow class segments to stretch past 10 minutes; change activities regularly; have a plan before you start talking; don’t just show videos. (I glance at Red Tea to see if she heard that part.)
I’m trying to keep my mind open, because I have a nasty habit of shutting it when I feel I’m being condescended. As teacher after teacher explains the importance of doing research before teaching on a topic, I struggle to keep the doors open. I do wonder, though: who are these lectures for? Is this organizational lethargy, or does the school have reason to believe the new teachers don’t know how to teach?
The day passes like a kidney stone. We finally make it to deep afternoon. Two of the Western teachers take the stage.
“All right,” says a man in a crisp shirt and a neat haircut, “You hear enough today? You got the idea?”
He rolls his eyes and casually mimes sucking a dick. Red Tea is sitting feet away. She stares at the man intensely, yet does not appear to understand what he is saying, or that he has just casually mimed sucking a dick.
“Okay,” continues Cool Teacher, “we’ve all had a long day.” I’m pretty worried he’s going to sit backwards on a chair and recite “Gangsta’s Paradise.” (Studies show that poetry is just another way to rap.)
Cool Teacher, who is named Merlot, forms a sort of tag team with another teacher named Zombie. I have been curious to meet Zombie, since she is the main author of the Welcome Guide, and the only American I spoke with during my recruitment who actually taught at the school. Zombie is sandy-blonde, basically shapeless, and weighs probably one metric ton.
(A note to the American, college-educated reader I’ve just offended: We’ve entered this weird phase in America where we are more obsessed than ever with our physical shape, but are also very obsessed with “living healthy” as opposed to old-fashioned “losing weight.” Part of living healthy is that food costs more, exercise regimens are increasingly cultic and look progressively sillier, and you’re supposed to desperately avoid gaining weight while still being positive about other people gaining weight: this is called being “body-positive.” I am not going to be body-positive here: Obesity is an American national crisis, and Zombie is the size of an aircraft carrier. This says a lot of things about her project management skills, and those things are not good.)
This dream team tells us not to worry: things are going to be fine here. For the first time all day, we actually get descriptions of our responsibilities: general ideas of how the school is organized, and some hints about how we will be evaluated.
We also get some other information.
“How many of you expect to be dating here?” Zombie asks. We’re back in middle school: the dudes giggle nervously.
“Okay,” says Zombie, plodding across the room. “These are the things you should know. The Chinese women here will think each date is a big deal. If you haven’t made your intentions clear by the third date, they will start planning for marriage.”
Deathly silence befalls the menfolk. This silence is objectively hilarious.
“The parents are also very involved in romantic relationships,” she goes on. (I was homeschooled, so at least here I have combat experience.) “They will expect you to take care of the family if you marry their daughter. They’ll be especially eager to marry off their daughter by the time she is 27, because by that point she’s a ‘leftover woman.’
“Now, for the ladies.”
Wait! I’m going to try to get laid and end up financially responsible for a pair of wizened Chinese raised on the Little Red Book? Am I just going to be a fucking monk for a year? (I was homeschooled, so at least here I have combat experience.) Who’s going to use the 108 condoms I brought to China?
Fuck me. All right, what about the ladies?
“The men here are…” Zombie chooses words carefully. “They’re often very… shy… around Western women. You are bolder than they are used to. They’re not always ready to approach Western women, and they may seem scared of you.
“But you should give them time, if you’re interested,” she adds. “I’ve had some…” – she pauses and rolls her eyes, dreamily – “wonderful experiences with Chinese men.”
(I don’t know if you have like a morbidly obese aunt who gives you the technical specs of her boyfriend’s tongue during Thanksgiving dinner, but that would be an equivalent experience.)
Less exciting than the Sex Talk is miscellaneous information about Chinese culture.
Merlot cues up a picture of concentric circles. The circle in the center is labeled “Family.” The circle just out is labeled, “Chinese neighbors.” Then “Chinese-coworkers.” Then a few more spheres of Chinese society. Outside of the circles, there’s a lonely dot. And arrow points to it. The arrow says, “You.”
“It’s all about family and cultural ties,” Zombie says. “It’s not that the Chinese don’t like you; it’s that you’re a foreigner. You can’t simply jump into the middle of the circle. You don’t get Chinese privileges; you’re an outsider.
“This is important to keep in mind, because the Chinese think in groups. When you do something bad, that means all white people, everywhere, are bad in that way.
“Slowly, you can build a way in,” she offers. “Gift exchange is a way to do this. Gifts are an obligation: If you get one, you have to give an appropriate gift back. You can’t give an uneven gift.”
Merlot cues up another slide. It says, “FACE.”
“Mmmm, yes,” Merlot nods sagely. “Who here knows about face?”
To my surprise, some of my compatriots nod back.
“The concept of face is very important in Asian cultures, and very very important in China,” she tells us. She also tells us a lot of other things about Face which are poorly organized and difficult to recite, so I’ll summarize:
Your Face is your public self; both your publicly presented person and your reputation. As a Chinese person, you must behave well, and in return you receive a cloak of acceptance and are thought well of. Importantly, you represent your circle when you go forth in public: you represent your family; and, relative to white people, you represent China. If you, as a Chinese person, are insulted or offended, then something between your sense of honor and the entire fucking nation is insulted and offended. You never want to lose face.
How do you lose face? Well, you pretty much get insulted about anything for any reason; and it doesn’t really matter whether or not the person giving insult knows that they are giving insult.
It turns out you can insult a person in China basically by saying anything directly to them. If you tell a Chinese person, to their (physical) face, “You are wrong about [X],” it’s an insult. If you tell them, “You are wrong about [X]” and there are other Chinese people around watching this shit, you have shamed the person who was wrong about the thing so badly they may have to murder you in your sleep. Direct, socially-equal confrontation is bad: superiors are allowed to scream at subordinates, and Chinese workers are allowed to bicker with each other. But if you, Outsider, say in monotone, “No; you’re wrong, we should definitely try it this other way,” you’ve just pissed on the sacred honor of like fourteen closely-related Chinese, and shamed America (which is America’s job, dammit!). My life is based around avoiding the close supervision of unimaginative people, and calling Spades Spades. I am not sure how well I’m going to do in China.
A corollary to Face:
“The Chinese have some important virtues,” says Zombie, “and one of these is humility. You’ll hear a master in the field, who has studied for a lifetime, say, ‘Oh, I dabble a little.’”
That’s not humility; that’s being an asshole. I’ve moved to a culture that makes a virtue of being an asshole. (Granted, I’m American, so maybe it will feel like home.)
“But they are very blunt here,” Merlot adds.
“Yes,” agrees Zombie. “They’ll tell you that you are beautiful or ugly, right to your face. A child once pointed at me and said, ‘Mommy, look at how massive the lady’s thighs are!’”
We’re pretty clearly supposed to gasp here, but the crowd’s murmur veers toward assent. (I mean, pretty observant kid.)
“Numbers are also very important,” Zombie continues. “Eight is good luck, and four is bad luck, because the word for four – si – is a homophone with ‘death,’ which is also si.” She tries the tones of the two si (which in either tone is pronounced somewhere between “suh” and “sih”). “I forget which tone it is,” she apologizes. “I’ve been studying Chinese for 20 years, and I still mess it up sometimes.”
I’ve been lazily glancing at Chinese flash cards for about a week, and I know that the downward tone is the one for the number four. I’m not sure which possibility is more alarming: that Zombie is lying about her study of Chinese, or that our liaison to Chinese culture maybe doesn’t retain information super well. I hope this means the thing about Face is misinformed, but watching Red Tea’s Joker grin on the sidelines, I have the nauseous suspicion Zombie was more or less telling it straight.
“Noise is good,” Zombie continues. “Loud noise indicates happiness. It’s a party! If something good happens in your day, you might shoot off a firecracker. It could be for the birth of a child, or because something nice happened at work. There are a lot of firecrackers here.”
(Personally, I think loud noise is good at concerts; less awesome in a human speaking voice.)
Moving on: “You see them taking pictures in here?” asks Merlot, smug as hell. (Again – “them.” Red Tea is still watching him, blinking a lot.)
“Ah yes,” Zombie nods. Her neck region wobbles. “China is a meeting culture. There are meetings to discuss the next meeting. They will assemble everyone after the meeting for a picture. They will take pictures during the meeting. If there aren’t pictures it didn’t happen. If there’s no meeting, it didn’t happen.
“This doesn’t mean that things don’t get done,” Zombie assures us, in the midst of explaining a system based on not doing shit. “Everything works out here; it’s just going to be a little bit slower than you’re used to.”
I wither. I’ve come to China to learn something new; broaden my damn mind. And the grand cultural conceit of China, so far, seems to be to follow the leader to the meeting where the leader is talking about the meeting the leader is having – yo, someone snap a picture of the leader! No, not you, White Devil!
Back in Colorado, I had a part-time job as a sort of secretary-cum-academic advisor for a Federally-funded college adjustment program. The setup was this: Universities take in a lot of students from terrible high schools, and these students often fail to graduate, because they’re simply not ready for college-level work. Surprising no one, these students are often black or Hispanic. (America: it’s pretty cool if you’re not poor!) The university I attended was crushingly white, and the neighborhood surrounding it was even whiter. So the idea of this program was to help students who were unprepared for academic stress learn how to manage their time and study; while also providing a cultural bridge between their world and the monied, white-bread world of their fellow undergrads.
It sounded nice, and it supposedly worked for some of our students. But mostly, it was an excuse for the director, an older, mumbling backstabber, to mumble and backstab while reminiscing about being younger. Palace intrigue, in a broom closet, with butter knives. We had meetings and meetings and meetings. Status updates were required when no specific projects had been assigned. Money was tight, but 50% of the staff might travel to a conference, and be required to do so. (I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a low-stakes educational conference, but the point of the exercise is not super specific and the handouts are not grammatically sound.)
Our director found out that I was a musician, and fancied herself a singer; so I’d end up in her office for up to 45 (paid) minutes at a time listening to her tales of gigs in small coffee shops in small-town Colorado c. 1997. Once I had to set up a panel of academic advisors across the campus; as part of this task I created a schedule for the event. The director kept trying to add an item to the agenda called “song.” I kept trying to delete “song,” and it kept reappearing. “Song” was finally defeated for good when the PA system couldn’t communicate with the director’s iPhone, and her backing band was thus lost. I saw a wildfire light in the director’s eyes for just a moment, as she contemplated going solo. I leapt to the next item on the schedule, which thus kept the panel discussion on track, and helped nobody and changed no lives, because the point of the discussion was just to have it, not for it to function.
What Zombie is telling me, here in China, is that I’ve moved to a full fucking country of this vaguely reasoned, meandering, administrative performance art; except that here the internet doesn’t work so hot.
Zombie and Merlot don’t seem like trustworthy narrators. Maybe it’s all going to work out; maybe Red Tea is just a paper-pusher with a PowerPoint fetish, and the rest of the Chinese at the school will have a lighter touch. Maybe there’s really this patient, deliberative culture of wisdom hiding under all the smog and assigned meetings, and I just have to dig for it.
I look over at Red Tea’s assistant, still snapping pictures. Maybe China is just a meeting culture.