Teaching English in China was never my life’s ambition. Going to China was part of it. So when people ask me if I want to teach or teach overseas as a career, I have an awkward time replying. I looked at English teaching as a condition to fulfill my adventures abroad, the most sensible way to get a visa and pay for my time. And, so I thought, I had an aptitude for English and teaching.
Sometimes a year spent as a foreign English teacher is referred to as a working holiday or gap year- something to do before transitioning to more higher education or a materially-minded career. I was not looking for a foreign holiday. I wanted life in a foreign culture. Full immersion. I signed my one-year teaching contract with the Chinese university then, not so much to further any teaching ambitions but to purchase one year on the outskirts of Chinese society.
As part of my contract, I was furnished with a university apartment. While the country of China is unbelievably crowded, my apartment was the most private space I’ve ever had to my name. A bedroom with a king-sized bed, a large living room, kitchen, bathroom, study, and sun room. I had too much space, really, with the down side being that my two wall-mounted air conditioners could not hope to cool the space in summer or heat it in the winter. In cold weather, I usually slept in my sweater and long underwear.
Not where I lived, but a building not unlike my apartment building. I think the units on top are water heaters.
I lived on campus, in a building that was inhabited by the university president, vice presidents, the three other foreign teachers (two Australian English teachers and one Korean Korean teacher), and assorted faculty members. All of the university apartments were connected as row houses at the north end of campus. They, and all the other university buildings, were surrounded by a wall on all four sides. Unlike America, I saw no open campuses. Everything was contained, including hospitals, apartment complexes, and government buildings. Modern China, like its historical self, is very much a wall-building society. Security guards sat in booths by the gates, and while they were not checking for identification and credentials, (possibly Mongolians, who knows) they did keep an eye out and were familiar with the usual cars and faces passing through the gates. Cars had to at least honk to get the gate accordioned in, and taxi drivers had to explain who their fare was. Most of my class days, I would spend all of my time within the university’s walls.
I had class first thing at eight, so I would wake up most mornings at half past six. This was made easy because I could hear the activity of people outside beginning at sunup. Often, I would hear monks at the neighboring Buddhist temple or the city’s construction workers setting off fireworks to scare away evil spirits. Many students had adopted the morning routine of reciting their English homework or classroom lectures while pacing in the campus parks, pushing out words with the full force of their lungs. Sometimes, I could hear their voices from my fourth floor apartment. I could never understand the English recitations as I walked by, but I was always listening in, hoping to interject a witty reply to surprise the unwitting student.
Sliding out of bed, the first thing I would do each day was turn off the wall-mounted air conditioner in my room and turn on the unit in the adjoining living room. As I mentioned, my apartment was plenty big for one- China is large and populous but living space is not as crowded as the extremes of Japan- and my AC unit was continually failing at catching up to the ambient temperature and conditioning the air as advertised. I was told that it was recommended for homeowners not to run their air conditioners overnight or while they were out, and then only at a moderate level while they were home, but if I turned mine off in the morning, my apartment would be a hotbox when I returned for lunch.
Cityscape outside my aunt’s apartment.
Like many questions of mine, it is still not very clear to me whether it was the local government minding citizens not to blast their AC’s, or if it was just sound, economical advice common to all. Considering all the blackouts my town went through, I imagine everyone must have felt obliged to minimize their air conditioner use, except of course outside temperatures are often unbearable and the body’s comfort must win out. In the winter, it did not matter how long I ran the same wall unit or how high I set it, it just could not heat the room up to a livable temperature. Getting out of bed, I wrapped my comforter around my shoulders to shuffle across the frozen floor to the bathroom. The only time I took off my winter coat was when I went to bed.
Some days, I would turn on the shower head or faucet, and it would vibrate violently and dribble out a little water, then stop. I learned to expect regularly losing my power and water service, but of course I never got used to it. Returning from a run outside in the sun, there was at least one instance where I was without running water, and instead of showering I had to blot my sweat off with thin hand towels. When I did shower, it was with a handheld shower head, standing in a corner next to the washer, with only a plastic curtain separating me from the rest of the bathroom.
Being without water also made it difficult to make breakfast. I could use water from the large water cooler in my living room, a common Chinese household appliance that was not actually cooled, but did have a hot water spout for tea or hot drinks. (The Chinese prefer hot water and claim it has better health benefits for the stomach.) In America, a quick breakfast for me would be cold milk and cereal, but China has no cold milk (the safest option was milk powder) and only the largest grocery chain stores had a small shelf of cereal boxes available. So, not usually having that, I might boil myself an egg or make some oatmeal in the morning. If not, I would pick something up in one of the school’s cafeterias.
Dressed and ready to go with book bag in hand, I would step out of my apartment to make the daily walk to class. As soon as I opened that door, I lost all peace and stillness. I was leaving the serenity of my apartment for the noise and bedlam of China. Immediately, even in the stairwell, I would be faced with the ubiquitous dirt and neglect of a Chinese city. Accumulated dirt and litter settled on the stairs, and on the concrete walls were scrawled phone numbers and names in permanent maker and spray paint, advertising for local locksmiths and repairmen. The funny thing about the filth of my apartment stairwell was I lived in the same building as the university president- the conditions I walked past every day were as good as it got. After awhile I started wondering how all that trash got there if the list of suspects could be narrowed down to the university president, vice presidents, the four foreign teachers, and their guests. No cleaning service came by to sweep up in or around the apartments, so if I was tired of seeing the eyesore of litter, it was left to me to pick it up. I am not averse to clearing litter, but it seemed that I was going to be the only one among millions to do it. The general ruinous state of things meant it did not look like an individual effort would ever make a difference.
There was a narrow lane or alley between my building and the next row of apartments. It was filled with a long line of electric scooters, the basic transportation of many Chinese families. It was not rare for me to see a family of four making their morning commute on one of these light scooters- dad driving, mom holding a baby in her seat behind dad, and a small child standing up front in the foot well, her head poking out above the handlebars. I shuddered to think of these overloaded grocery getters being involved in an accident.
On my way to class, I would pass hundreds of students, seemingly much more people than I ever saw walking on an American university campus. I attributed the concentration of people to student housing and transportation- almost every student lived on campus, and none of them (to my knowledge) owned a car or drove to school. Also, Chinese college schedules had students attending classes from morning until evening, so there was the need to be out and about in the same central area.
I passed through many hordes of people on the campus pathway, then tried to sift through the unruly pile-up at every food counter of the cafeteria, or “canteen” as they called it. Knowing how foul and weak the food was, I questioned why students were “competing” (their word for aggressive behaviors), and also why I even bothered eating it. I suppose my answer is that it was quicker and easier than cooking my own meals three times a day.
Then I would pass the volleyball, badminton, and basketball courts- always full- and some tai chi groups, joggers, and outdoor ping-pong players playing around the school’s running track.
My destination was one of two buildings, both ungainly and large, with the older building having long, decrepit classrooms and the newer building having classrooms still dirty but not yet rundown, and my classrooms having unreliable or absent computer plug-ins and projectors. There were usually no dedicated classroom computers, not any that I could use, so I brought my laptop with me and struggled with student assistance to get it connected and projected onscreen. After minutes of fumbling around, I was not always successful, and so I had to swallow my frustration and improvise.
Sitting in with a favorite class. There were 5 or 6 male students and some others who didn’t stick around for the picture.
The campus was always full of people, but it was a peaceful oasis compared to the city streets outside. Only occasionally a car would honk its way through a crowd of students or separate two friends holding hands. (Chinese friends have a charming habit where two men or two women would innocently walk hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, without any sexual connotation or the American fear of having onlookers staring or jeering at them.)
Once I exited the school gates, my thoughts were drowned out by the barrage of car horns, scooter beeps, and three blast bursts of air horns from buses and trucks. Honking was repetitive and constant, and walking along or across the streets was a dangerous and intimidating prospect. There were days when I finished teaching my morning classes, and surprisingly still having energy after being ignored or looked at listlessly by 40-50 students for two hours, I would walk my chalk dust-covered self away from the quick and easy (and bad) meal at the cafeteria, and walk through the wild streets to a noodle shop or to the morning market.
Stepping outside the university’s west gate, the constant onslaught of pollution, people, and noise would intensify and my mind would be thrashing against the inundation of Chinese city culture. Vehicles would rush by- their drivers ready to kill me if I didn’t give way or group up with a mob of people to protect myself. Street dogs and occasionally chickens would wander across the busted up sidewalks. Garbage and dirt and food slop would collect wherever the wind blew, and an every-directional parade of people streamed all around me.
Survivors of the street scene could make their way to the morning market, where local farmers set their vegetables and animals out on tables and tarps for display. I stayed away from the meat- which came in the form of a butchered-before-your-eyes live animal or, if already processed, sat out on a table or meat hook so the flies and sunlight could pick it over. I would buy eggs and the kinds of vegetables I recognized, knowing that I could rinse them off and be as safe eating them as the circumstances of China would allow.
If I had to sum up the difference between American culture and Chinese in one example, I would point to a morning walk through a crowded, chaotic street and buying produce from an old farmer squatting on the pavement, or buying fish from the woman who killed and cleaned them on her tarp in a pool of blood, mud, and street filth splashed up from passersby’s shoes. Going through this daily ritual will open a Westerner’s eyes and shake his soul.
Morning Market
Street Market
On a day when I needed to travel to a neighboring town, I would either foolishly trust my life to a taxi and split the maniacal driver’s fare with three other passengers (40 yuan total meant 10 yuan/$1.50 per passenger), or I would go to the city bus station and rely on the slower but safer public transportation. Buses, being biggest, were bosses of the road, and they honked and drove however they pleased, in the same way the largest fish moves how they please through the ocean. Everyone else had to give way. As my friend Hui explained, green traffic lights were a contest of speed, size, and daring.
After lunch, I would return to my apartment to take a nap, the same as most everyone else was taking a nap, then shake off sleep to go teach my afternoon classes, work on my lesson plans for the upcoming week, or enjoy the free time by reading or going on my computer. Not too often did I seek a free-roaming adventure outside the campus walls. There were times I went running through the country roads and farm villages, but I preferred to stay away from the harrying conditions of the city streets and enjoy whatever peace I could find. It was nice to see people walking, chatting, exercising, playing with their child or grandchild, or studying outside. I preferred it to American life lived inside and in cars, and after all I did come to China to see and experience the daily scenes of a Chinese city.
I relished the sense of it all, yet I was an outsider, always a step removed from complete immersion, being foreign to the language and culture. And, I lacked the fortitude to expose myself non-stop. Being a silent observer tossed around by a tumultuous environment had me seeking out my own space.
My daily life was lived in crowds, lonely and alone. I would walk through the aging school buildings and wonder if I was the only one offended by the overpowering, wafting smell of the bathrooms, or depressed by the sight of food wrappers and other trash on the aging tile floors and crumbling desks. I knew that a Chinese school didn’t have the money to refurbish the worn-out flooring, curtains, cabinets, computers, and desks of their dilapidated buildings, but I thought at least the people could be conservative and care for what they did have. But I seemed to be the only one, not just to be born outside the culture, but to notice the culture for what it was. Everyone else took for granted the barred doors of every school and apartment building, the complete absence of heating systems for classrooms in the frigid winter months, and the need for students to carry around a thermos, fill it up at the campus hot water shop, and leave it outside in a group of other thermoses when they went into the campus convenience store. I was the only one who stared at the “natural” sight of a child using my apartment’s street as his public toilet. No one else had nostalgia for absent songbirds, squirrels, or blue skies. They were accustomed to living under the yellow-gray haze. Living under a China sky would break my spirit and teach me to expect the same.
So interesting, but don’t know how you did it.