ZJFU Teachers’ Oral English Numbers Game

Months ago, Bob, in ZhiJiang Forestry University Foreign Affairs, told me three offices would coordinate my teachers’ Oral English class. A month ago, someone named Charlie called to say my “curriculum would be Oral English. He said they expected “a small class, maybe no more than 10, like last year’s class.”

We chatted pleasantly about how easy it would be to get 10 people to improve their speaking skills. Three weeks ago, Charlie called to say we would meet on Saturday nights for four weeks. Could I begin next week? I couldn’t, since I’d be in HongKong. “No problem. Another foreign teacher will teach the first two classes.”

They would divide the eight weeks between me and him, four each. Too good to be true! On Thursday, I called Charlie. “I’m eager to meet the Oral English class.” Our dialogue went something like this: “Oh, Virginia. It begins Saturday.” “Yes. Where do we meet? Is there a room number?” “Room number? My colleague sent you an e-mail about it. Maybe students will show you.” “I just opened my e-mails, and I haven’t heard from ZJFU.I’m coming to the campus now. Could someone take me to see the room?”

He was suddenly welcoming: “I am in 402 above Bob’s office. If you don’t wish to climb four floors, I will meet you in his office.” I biked, in high spirits, over to ZJFU’s first campus building. Charlie, young and blinking behind wire-rimmed glasses, poured me a cup of hot water from a thermos. “Sit please.” “I am glad to meet you and appreciate the work you’ve done for my teaching at ZJFU. Did the other foreign teacher enjoy the first classes?” “First classes? There has been a change. The other foreign teacher had something else to do, so you will be teaching eight weeks, not four, ending December 26.”

“I can teach eight weeks.” Charlie retreated behind his computer and shuffled papers. “There is a small problem, however.” “A problem?” (Two could play the repetition game.) “The numbers of students have changed.” “How many will be in the class?” “16″ “I can handle sixteen.”

He breathed a sign of relief and resumed shuffling papers. A concern niggled. “Charlie, did you say sixTEEN? Or SIXty?” He wrote 60 on his hand while repeating “16″. “No, I cannot teach 60, not in Oral English.” ” No?” “But you must…” He went back to shuffling papers. “I’m sorry. I will not accept 60.” “How many? I could ask my boss, maybe split the class.” “Is that possible?” “Maybe… What are your free nights?” “I teach evenings at Babe Training Center. How about mornings? My best ones would be Wednesday or Friday, anytime.” (I got up to leave.)

 ”Thank you for offering to split the class.” “Oh, is there a class list?” Charlie shuffled papers furiously. “Yes, but the list is not finished. Uh…There are a few more than 60 on it.” “How many?” “100. But we won’t know how many signed up until the first class meets.” “100? Even if you split it, that means 50 in each class. That’s too many. I simply won’t do it, Charlie.” “I know you have your teaching principals, but just teach them a little something and don’t worry about teaching quality.” “No, Charlie, I cannot do that. 100 people wouldn’t have a chance to speak more than a minute during each evening. I won’t do it.” “I’ll talk to my boss. I’ll call you.”

Student-helper LiChun arrived and took me on the back of his scooter to 1312, in a second Building 1. The stereotypic room had a computer and screen in front of a chalkboard, before fixed seats lined up like church pews. We went out a different door than we entered and found a foreigners’ Chinese class with a half-dozen students; I envied the teacher’s cozy group, reading and speaking far above my yi dian (little bit) Chinese level.

If only I’d been offered this type of class my first year in China!. Non-office hours went by (college offices shut down 11:30-2:30 for a siesta), and I called Charlie at 3:00 before leaving for Babe School. “Hello, Charlie. I must teach soon, so I am calling about what you did about the class numbers.” “Numbers?” (I waited.) “Oh, I talked to my boss. He said you must teach the first class, then maybe make two classes that you must teach. No pay, of course.”

 ”Charlie, did you tell him I refuse to teach Oral English to classes of 50?” We spent 20 minutes on a verbal see-saw, both repeating ourselves. I finally told him, “It appears that nothing has changed since we talked this morning. If I walk into class of 100 on Saturday, and no one is there to split them I will simply walk on out. I’m sorry.”

Charlie said he’d inform his boss, now that he understood “the seriousness of my teaching.” He’d call me; “maybe we’d need classes of 20 every morning.” I arrived at Babe School’s office to hear Mark on the phone, “Sure, no problem, Charlie. I’ll just get an idea of their English level. Saturday 6:30-8:30.Bye bye.” “What? Is Charlie bending your ear about Dragon Lady Virginia, Mark?” “You certainly got his attention.”

“Mark, how would you get an idea of 100 people’s Oral English levels in a first class?” “I’d have them write a paragraph about themselves.” Rather than debate how a written paragraph could indicate a speaking level, I started for my kindergarten class. Mark followed me up the stairs.

“Virginia, will you take my class tomorrow night so I can take yours at the university?” “I don’t see what that will gain me for the following weeks, if I’m saddled by 50 or 60 students. I plan to go to the first class.” “They don’t know how many will show up.” “I’ve heard that over and over. What are the chances that 100 will become a workable class number?” Mark didn’t answer, nor did I expect him to pursue his argument.

Sleeping off Friday’s cold I may have caught from Mark, I gave Charlie until 3:00 p.m.and rang him. “Oh, Virginia…” “I received an e-mail telling me I am teaching Saturday and Thursday evenings. As I had told you, I teach four hours at Babe School on Thursdays.” “Oh, that was a mistake. We cannot call 100 teachers to see if they are free on Thursday morning.” “Remember I said I preferred Wednesday or Saturday mornings?” “Oh yah, yah.” (Silence) “What can I expect on Saturday, Mark?” “You do not need to teach the first class. Another foreign teacher will meet the class.” “Is it Mark?” “Well, yes, it is.” “Mark has his own class to teach Saturday night. Did you know that? I told him I am meeting the class. Will you be there to split it?” “If not me, I’ll send someone.”

I took Saturday as quietly as I could, tutoring two hours in the morning, whispering instructions to my TA who helped wonderfully in my two-hour second grade class. I dressed for success, got lost twice trying to find 1312, and pressed an early-comer into service to erase the board and turn on the microphone. It took him three phone calls, two exits, and the loan of a teacher’s card to turn on the mike. Teachers trickled in–friendly, informally dressed, armed with pen and notebook. LiChun had them sign a list indicating what mornings they were free.

I wrote “laryngitis” on the board, used the mike, and answered questions about myself. LiChun kept computing, so we moved into groups, brainstorming skills they wanted to improve: Pronounciation, Listening, Vocabulary, Speaking, Communication, Organizing for education. Groups debated and prioritized topics they proposed: Travel, Sports, Films, American University Culture, Family-Babies, Foods. LiChun announced triumphantly, “There are 22 in the class, so it will continue to meet Saturdays only. You are a very good teacher!” He left.

After I shared about American education’s choices, fostering of curiosity, cooperative learning, and discussion-oriented teaching in one side of a Venn Diagram, they readily discussed China’s education and filled in the other side. We were identifying similarities when the bell rang. I told them enthusiastically how much I looked forward to next week’s class. I made a mental note to write Charlie a note to thank him for his efforts. Should I sign it Dragon Lady?

Post-Halloween Euphoria – Nov 1, 2009

HuangShan’s National Day mob climb, after three weeks, seems like the surreal dream it was. We returned to Babe English Training School to find two office girls gone, replaced by Candy and Daisy, neither of whom speak much English. Teaching Assistant Heather, my personal favorite, quit to study for exams that might lead one day to being an elementary teacher, then popped in to help in my class “one last time.”

I’ve trained about half a dozen “assistants” over the two months here (to stop interpreting everything in Chinese, to bring the children upstairs in an orderly fashion after they’ve toileted, to take part in activites to encourage shy students, to learn the names of items and supplies we’re using, to assist immature kids with pencils or crayons without doing work for them).

Current helper, Nancy, with the most English and an insistent manner backed up by feelings of inferiority from “being from another province,” busily writes personal descriptions of what I’m teaching and how well children do–at least that’s what I’m told the Chinese notes to parents say–and is slowly coming around to helping me direct attention or respond to runny noses.

Nancy planned to quit weeks ago, but said “Bear wouldn’t agree.” Sue, who comes about half the time, learns quickly and assists my lessons with teaching intuition; then she sweeps up and empties the rubbish bin. We often eat together or share snacks; I’m not too sure we foreigners, immigrant labor, aren’t considered below the office girls, true Chinese citizens.

Visas expired October 24, so Zoe had businesswoman Kelly–a new partner replacing Michael and Shirley–get Mark and me tickets for October 23. One evening, in front of Babe’s locked doors, Zoe told us air was tai gui la (expensive) and a HongKong holiday on Monday necessitated our staying five nights.

Mark quickly agreed that it “was only fair” that we bear the cost of our hotel rooms, but I reminded Zoe that she had promised hotel expenses. Kelly had booked a 500 $HK waterfront hotel, so I estimated that we’d spent half month’s salary on our HongKong visa stay. I was the only one who had taught (three hours) that evening, so my “I am very disappointed and feel I can’t trust your word.” was mild, compared to how I felt.

Next evening, Mark booked us Kowloon hostel rooms (a fraction of hotel prices) and Zoe took me to the most expensive restaurant in LinAn, apologized, and sweetened the deal. Kelly would arrange a weekly gift massage and facial. Zoe would quit giving me new students. Then she talked gossip and plans for “Mama teaching at Babe School for many more years.” She would “arrange that I could go home each year to visit family.”

I tried to say as little as possible and enjoyed the tender steak, salmon, seafood, and vegetables cooked Japanese-style at our table. I was surprised at how quickly my sleepless night receded. My mood shifted toward a vacation in HongKong.

The airport, located on the biggest of 600+ islands–Lantau, sold us MTR passes that included the Express line–45 minutes to HongKong’s Central station. We rode a luxury bus, part of the Express services to the visa office cosmapolitan vicinity. Gleaming skyscrapers, gorgeous hotels, and multi-level shopping areas made us think of Paris or Madrid minus cathedrals.

Driving and walking was on the left, along with cleanliness and order instilled by the British, protectorate for about 100 years prior to China’s resuming dominant power in 1997. Green mountains rose into view everywhere.

My visa application went smoothly, except for security scan detecting four wrapped candies in my fanny pack, which they returned. Mark, suffering a bad cold and misplacing documents, had to fill out forms again because he used red pen. He assured me he could figure out subway maps, so we set off for the underground. Then Mark disappeared far ahead!

He came toward me in the crowd, didn’t respond to my call, and quickly was lost the opposite way. Thank goodness I had an address for Dragon Hostel. An hour and a half later, with kindness from several Chinese English-speakers, I maneuvered luggage through MTR changes and found my seventh-floor cubicle.

Dragon was one of 100 hostels on 15 floors, established when HongKong economy caused most families to move out of busy Argyle Street’s building. Dragon Hostel had TV, fridge, internet, shower in shared toilet, boiled water, and books left from world travelers. Mark arrived a half hour later, apologized for leaving me, and agreed we’d spend as little time there as possible.

I called a number of Zoe’s friend; Steven graciously invited us to dinner at HongKong City University. It was a task to find the college gate via MTR and Festival Walk Shopping Center exits. Steven’s hope is to make “172 on LSAT and go to law school in America.” He fingers a number of political pies and may realize his dream. He also arranged for us to go with “researchers in linguistics, translation, and computers” to a Beach Bar-b-que the next afternoon.

 Twenty bright grad students took us to Coffee Bay to roast beef, pork ribs, sardines, chicken wings, pork balls, fish balls, and white bread over barrels of coals.   We stuck feet in the ocean at sunset, then conversed around the fires, with many of them eating the entire five hours we stayed. Our serving table and benches around fires was one of about 100 such family- and friend-groups doing the same thing. 78 HK$ ticket entitled us to one cold drink. All was surprisingly non-cluttered and quiet, compared to gatherings of that many people anywhere else I’d been. Again, I blessed the British influence!

Early morning we walked Kowloon’s Nathan Street to find Tin Hau Temple (green tile, nice gardens), Jade Market (“authentic from Burma, Missy!”), and Night Market (speaking Cantonese, impolite to me; Mark bought whatever they put in his bag, got better treatment).

At Tsim Sha Tsui, the beginning of Kowloon’s New Territories, land built up over development years, we took MTR to Central and walked the causeway.  Star Ferry let us both ride free because they asked only my golden age. Mark read a newspaper while I found Godiva chocolates and lemon gelato, just like San Francisco. Enjoying sun, I lay back on a ledge until a security guard tapped me, “No sleeping!”

Another deja vu day, we exited Tsim Sha Tsui into Kowloon Park. Graceful fans and tai chi, the same movements I’d seen in 1997’s visit here, slowed time beneath mango and magnolia trees. There was a walk-through exhibit showing Good Food-Bad Foods and listing milk and steak as bad guys, guarded by transformer-like Health Protectors. MSG was conspicuously absent, unless it appeared on the Good Food Flavorings side.

I got a ticket to HK Ballet’s “Romeo and Juliet” with a near-perfect performance by orchestra and dancers. The Cultural Center crowd ranged from faded jeans to evening dresses, students and tourists who left early to folks like me with shining eyes and wonderful memories of Prokofiev’s score mercifully shortened and beautifully danced. Mark met his first “Chinese hippie” at Starbuck’s.

Mark wanted temples, and our tiny-print map showed Golden Buddha near the causeway at the tip of Wan Chai’s spit. We walked, asked, and were met with blank stares until we found ourselves at a monumental golden flower above the picture-taking crowd in front of the waterfront Expo Center. Golden Buddha became Golden Bauhainia, a five-petaled lotus, symbolizing the reunification of China and HongKong beneath two flags–China’s yellow stars on one, HongKong’s white bauhainia on the other red flag.
Still seeking temples, we found our way to Lantau and a bus with seat belts (otherwise, you slid off on curves) to China’s largest seated buddha. Mountain views were spirit-lifting; the new (built 1990s) statue and monastary had the feel of a Buddhist Disneyland. We didn’t linger.

Back down the mountain, you could almost feel the feng shui move through Lantau Square toward the mountains as children frolicked in the fountain and myriads of languages passed between sips of capuccino or Big Mac’s. Mark said, “A good place to retire,” and bought a bagguette.

We watched A Symphony of Light from the Kowloon side–a laser show surpassing any I’d seen anywhere–colored lights blinking, beaming, zipping up and down, zig-zagging, and coloring in HongKong Island’s magnificent architecture on the opposite bank.

Ships and boats passed through the deep natural canal, adding to the music and narration. Wandering the Avenue of Stars and reading Cultural Center schedules, we found we’d missed the Tuba Throat Singers. Next trip, maybe?

Mark wanted to revisit the border. We took blue line to Lo Wu, where he hoped to get a replacement picture for the one a Chinese guard prevented him, as 12-year-old, from taking in 1963. Multi-million dollar high rises dotted tops of mountains where he remembered tar paper shacks. (We avoided returning to The Peak, a tram ride to HongKong’s highest point–been there, done that!) Was Shenzhen the increasing industry beyond low green hills along our railway?

We eagerly alighted and found we could go no further toward China (passports were still with visa office anyway). So much for revisitng old scenes; industry had obviously taken over anyway.

Too soon, it was time to pick up visas and head for LinAn. We tried and failed to find Alliance Francaise, found an upscale tea house and an excellent book store. I’d hoped to eat a truly sumptious dinner, usually enjoyed native-recommended Chinese fare instead. I found special gifts at the upscale Chinese Cultural Arts building, didn’t have time for shopping–reputed to be HongKong’s main attraction. I’d gladly return to HongKong to see if she ages as gracefully in the next ten years as in the last 12.

Zoe and Bear picked us up in Hangzhou and announced we’d “Abdul, Nancy, and Sue teach your classes; we eat together in LinAn and have a meeting about the Halloween party.” We were introduced to Celery, a new partner and Kelly’s friend, over spicy beef, tofu, water chestnuts, seasoned cabbage, and–the house specialty, served first–a half-loaf of bread filled with white bread chunks and ice cream. Life’s short–eat dessert first? Last US administration’s leaders watched over us from a mural.

We met, with much discussion about the in-house, activity-filled Halloween party. I was told I was in charge, but kept saying, “Interpret, please!” amidst the Chinese chatter. “Virginia, Chinese parents are noisy. We need a microphone? Why not rent a hall and have a big meal?” They couldn’t fathom families going room-to-room according to directions on tickets. It was a new concept, not to hold an extravagant show for parents to view children dancing, singing, and eating, although we’d heard repeatedly how last year’s was “a fiasco.” They’d spent a day blowing up balloons, which kids ran riot and broke within the first few minutes then “freaked out.” For days, Zoe micro-managed, calling to remind me of things she’d just called about, and worried as staff prepared family ))for crowd control and decorated. Think high school prom preparation for an approximate picture.

The party was a howling success–200+ people crowded into the center for activities in our classrooms (my two huge tables of ribbons/scraps/colors/paper plates/scissors/etc. in the biggest room were crowded continually with parents as delighted with their mask creations as the kids). We had face painting, picture show of American kids in costumes, Day of the Dead altar to Mary Travis in a scary room, a live “Headless Horseman” play, Trick of Treat, and decorating straw scarecrows.Bear showed himself to be quite an artistic arranger. Music blared, jack-o-lanterns blinked, and we ended with all my kids (ages 2 1/2 to 9) singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” with guitar. Parents actually got quiet enough to listen while standing in/out the glass doors and spilling into the street. We needed the microphone. All took home prizes.

Owners took us (13) workers to a celebration banquet: duck tongue, snails, lily soup, jerked mutton with peppers, and a dozen less-exotic, delicious dishes. I overate.

They’re working hard on me to stay, and it’s tempting while things are going smoothly. Last night’s successful “first” for Babe School felt good, marred a bit by Kelly’s asking me while driving home if we could rethink the numbers in my classes. “There will be many parents who want their children in your classes now.” I told her the quality of teaching would go down and I absolutely didn’t want any added at this point. I guess Chinese have the idea that they, a rung above those they employ, have the right to make decisions about going or staying. They don’t seem to take no for an answer, so I’m waiting it out quietly. My heart’s still headed home to the US.