TheBanyanTree: Transition, Part 5

[Pat M]

Transition, Part 5

Buckland Lintong College occupies a three-storey concrete building on a
quiet street half a block from a main thoroughfare. On the ground floor,
there is a reception desk, two classrooms, a small bedroom with a single bed
where Amy, the Chinese English teacher, lives and a WC (washroom). Three
classrooms, another WC and Mrs. Zhang's bedroom make up the second floor. On
the third level, there are two teachers' offices (one for the principal,
Alice and one for me), a small kitchen with a two-burner propane stove, a
sink and a few cooking utensils and dishes. There is also a large bedroom
for Alice should she choose to stay overnight rather than drive back to
Xian. My office has two desks and two single beds. The college does not have
a refrigerator, oven, television or even a radio. It has many windows and is
bright and clean. When I first arrived, the college's washrooms were like
most of the WC's in China—dirty, and the smell of urine reached the
reception area.

I took it upon myself to buy some cleaning products and rubber gloves and
scrubbed the facilities nearest my office. Lead by example, I thought, as I
scoured away the built-up stains and foul odor. The next day, I smiled to
myself when I heard the sound of scrubbing coming from the ground floor
washroom. It went on and on. After that, the stink in the reception area
disappeared.

Two middle schools and a primary school are located close to the college.
There are thousands of students nearby. When they are dismissed at noon and
after school, they flood the streets, and the traffic becomes even more
chaotic as it slows to a near standstill.

Each school has it own school uniform. The students of one middle school
wear mottled khaki camouflage pants and shirts. When I passed the schoolyard
one day, I saw several thousand teenagers lined in perfectly straight rows
exercising in unison to broadcast instructions. In their army fatigues, they
looked more like they were young soldiers in training than students working
out.

Buckland Lintong College, I discovered, had only opened its doors some three
months earlier and was still virtually unknown. So far, there were only
about a dozen students enrolled.

"We need to advertise," I said, thumbing through a stack of brochures that
sat on the front desk. "People need to know there is a foreign teacher at
Buckland. If you want me to put on a nice dress and go out on the street to
hand these out, I will," I offered. Amy smiled.

Alice (the principal) and Amy are both qualified Chinese English teachers,
yet they don't understand me most of the time, even when I speak slowly and
repeat myself. Their spoken English is limited as well, but I'm certain
their knowledge of English grammar and grammatical terms far surpasses mine.
They face the same problem as millions of Chinese: their lack of exposure to
spoken English by a native English speaker seriously hinders any meaningful
communication with one.

The weekend drew nearer; I waited in anticipation, wondering when I'd be
asked to start teaching. On Thursday, Amy told me classes would resume on the
weekend. There would be two preschool classes, two beginners' English
classes and two adult oral English classes on both Saturdays and Sundays. Most
of Buckland Lintong's students attended public school during the day and
were only available outside of school hours.

When deciding where to teach, I hadn't realized I'd be teaching on weekends
and evenings, but the lure of small classes was enough that I didn't
complain. Besides, I'd already purchased many things for my apartment and
couldn't bear the thought of packing up and moving yet again.

The majority of Buckland's teachers teach at public schools throughout China
.  They work Monday through Friday and teach a maximum of twenty hours a
week.  Because they instruct numerous classes of the same English level,
they must only prepare one or two lesson plans per week.

In comparison, I need to prepare up to twenty lesson plans a week. Another
drawback is that I won't receive the same number of holidays as public
school teachers. No matter, my classes will have a maximum of 15 students
while public school teachers could find themselves in front of classes of up
to 100 students.

I was both excited and scared to start my new job. When I thought of
teaching twelve classes in two days, a rush of butterflies exploded in my
stomach. I may not be obsessive compulsive when it comes to housecleaning,
but with anything work or study related, I must admit I am. This makes me a
great employee but puts a lot of unnecessary pressure on me.

I spent an excessive amount of time preparing my lessons for the weekend.
There was no curriculum in place for the preschoolers or the adult oral
English classes, so I created my own. The other classes were following a
textbook.

My first two teaching days went well but they exhausted me. I arrived at the
school before 9 am and returned to my apartment at 9 pm. Some people had
heard about 'the foreigner' at Buckland College and had come to watch my
lessons. In every class, there were curious spectators. Buckland allowed
this with the hope that some would register as students.

Early in my second week, Amy gestured to me to the front door.

"What do you think?" she asked.

      Outside, a van enshrouded in colourful canvas banners advertising the
Buckland College idled. A bullhorn sat on its roof.

"Wow! That looks great!" I said. "Did you organize this?"

"Yes," she said, beaming.

"We will drive around the city," she said. "Let's go."

I got into the front seat next to the driver and Amy took the back seat. I
couldn't help but smile as the van crawled along the busy streets
broadcasting the virtues of attending Buckland College.

"We are going to a school," Amy told me. "When the students come out, we'll
hand out these." She held up a brochure.

A short time later, the driver pulled to a stop near a public school's
gates.  Amy handed me a bundle of Buckland fliers.

"Have you ever done this?" she asked.

"No," I said with a grin as I climbed out of the van.

Throngs of grandparents and a few parents milled around on both sides of the
street. Society is very different here. In China, adult sons are expected to
care for their aging parents; it is their duty. In return, grandparents
bring up their grandchildren allowing their parents to work.

Out on the street, I smiled and said, "Ni hao (nee how)" as I worked my way
through the crowd. Everyone I approached accepted a brochure from me. I was
a novelty, a strange species with white skin and fair hair from another part
of the world.  People wanted to get a close look. Some wanted to shake my
hand as if I were a celebrity. I quickly ran out of brochures and returned
to the van for more. Amy, I saw, still had most of hers.

Hundreds of elementary-aged students dressed in red, gray and white outfits
began to exit the school gates. When some curious students approached and
greeted me with, "Hello," I returned the greeting, smiled and handed them a
leaflet. Then chaos erupted. Every student wanted a brochure and they
swarmed me. I couldn't hand the brochures out fast enough. Some students
began to fight, trying to tear them out of other students' hands. I felt a
moment of fear as I envisioned falling and being trampled on. To regain
control, I held the remaining brochures up in the air out of reach. Then, I
quickly distributed them, held up my empty hands and pointed to the van.

"I'll get more," I said and made a hasty exit.

A few minutes later, things quieted, and Amy and I returned to the vehicle
and continued trolling the streets. I was getting the hang of promoting the
school. When Amy had the driver stop at the bank, I got out of the van and
began handing out brochures to all who wanted them while I waited for her.

Next stop was near one of the two universities in the city, and then we
headed back to the college. I was tired and stared out the window. Flocks of
pedestrians crowded the sidewalks and the streets buzzed with vehicles—cars,
motor scooters, motor cycles, and homemade contraptions that turned
motorbikes into little trucks. There were few bicycles, unlike Yangshuo or
Beijing.

Most people in China do not own cars but ride trains, buses or taxis. Those
with money drive black sedans (mostly Hondas, Toyotas and VWs) with black
tinted windows that make it impossible to see who is inside. A few of the
very rich drive huge, top-of-the-line sport utility vehicles.

It was pomegranate season and dozens of vendors lined the streets. The
sellers sat listlessly next to mountains of fruit without a customer in
sight. How could these people survive on the few yuan they made? As I
pondered this, a taxi pulled out in front of our van nearly causing an
accident, and our driver leaned on the horn.
In China, I feared for my safety every day, whether I was riding in a taxi
to and from the college or a pedestrian crossing the street. The driving
habits of the Chinese leave me lost for words.

***  New photos can be viewed at
http://picasaweb.google.com/Ms.Pat.Martin/China2