My friend, Julianne, is going to Indonesia. She just finished her masters in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages from Teachers College, Columbia University, and she was selected to be teaching fellow in a U.S. government program. She'll be there an academic year.
I met Julianne in 2002 when we both took a teacher training certificate course in Boston. Julianne had been in Switzerland for more than a year, and she had her sights set on returning. After the course, she found a job in Basel, teaching English to the blind. Then, five years later, she got into Columbia the same year I did--a total coincidence.
Now, she's back on the road, and blogging about it. If you'd like to see what she's up to, go to http://www.julianne-in-indonesia.blogspot.com. (She's only just started writing, though, as she leaves the U.S. tomorrow.)
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Alright. I admit it. My photoshop skills are rough. But this image was inspired by a headline from the New York Times today:
"Bernanke Is Pessimistic, but Bush Urges a ‘Deep Breath’"
Fret not, fellow Americans! Our economy is taking a turn down the shitter, but all will be fine if we just BREATHE a little! Let's hope that Unkie George doesn't just pass out, or do something like learn to read, with all that oxygen going to his brain for the first time in his life!
In all events, I'm in a chipper mood because I'm in Montreal! What a great city! I got a sublet for the month of July and I'm smack dab in the middle of downtown. I'm living on Bishop Street which is one parallel street over from the celebrated Crescent Street (the reasons for which it is celebrated are unknown to me, especially as it looks a lot like MOST of the streets surrounding it, but all the guidebooks suggest that it's something special). I'm studying French at the YMCA and that's just three blocks away. Classes run from 8:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. and in the mornings it's grammar and in the afternoons, conversation. I'm learning all sorts of things that I should have learned ages ago and I'm finally developing a base on which to attach the many colorful French words and expressions I have learned over the years. This means I can now use slang and vulgarities in the passive voice, the past conditional and the plus-que-parfait. Si tu n'avais pas ete un connard saoul le hier soir, tu n'aurais pas eu la guelle de bois ce matin. (If you hadn't been a drunken bastard last night, you wouldn't have had a hang-over this morning.)
Like most YMCAs, this one that houses a language school is also home to a fitness center--one that is very well-equipped and well-maintained. They offer dozens of classes, a lap pool, an indoor running track and an impressive array of resistance training equipment. They've got a class I've been to twice called "Boot Camp Circuit Training". The first time I went, we went outdoors, climbed a million stairs, then the height of Mont Royal four times (I only did two), played tag, did a bunch of push-ups, then worked with resistance bands in pairs. Last night, I went back for more torture, but this time we stayed indoors. We ran, hopped, jumped, did a lot of push-ups, worked with weights and stretched and by the end of it I managed to bruise my right thumb in a wheelbarrow race (oh! it was so much easier when I was 8!) then scrape open AND bruise my left shin leaping over a step that was clearly too high for my 26-inch inseam. Awesome!
Aside from studying and working out, I have settled into my neighborhood and found a health food store, a Chinese supermarket and a very good western supermarket. I've been cooking a lot and I find that making my own food makes me feel more at home.
Other interesting events:
Ingrid, a girl I met in France in March recently came to Montreal with her boyfriend. It was her first trip to North America. We met up for lunch and we both came to the conclusion that my French is improving and no, no one but the Quebecois can understand the so-called French spoken here. This was very reassuring as I find little difficulty getting around France, but can't always understand basic conversation here.
The Montreal Jazz Festival was in full-swing when I arrived. I didn't get out to too many of the events, but I did see a silent film that was part of series shown in conjunction with the festival. It was "Underworld", from 1927, and it is considered to be one of the first films of the gangster genre. Being a silent film, there weren't any words spoken, but there was live music accompaniment which was pretty cool.
Last Friday, my school hosted an "International Lunch" whereby all students were invited to bring a dish representative of their home country. My school hosts an enormous number of South Americans and Mexicans, but there are also some students from Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Japan and Korea. My contribution to the event was six Spam musubi, cut into small pieces, then two cucumber and avocado rolls, cut maki style. To keep it simple, I told them it was "Hawaiian sushi". The Korean students seemed especially appreciative of the Spam musubi.
That evening, I was killing time on Facebook when I saw my old roommate from my time in London (circa 2000), Ryan, a Canadian, come online. I wrote and told him that I was in-country and he invited me to his "birthday weekend" at St. Sauveur Water Park. His brother lives in Montreal and I caught a ride up with him. His brother, Deryk, is an academic. He's working on his PhD in management and the conversation up to the water park went into the cerebral very quickly. It was really kind of nice, especially after an intellectually lonely and stifling year in Kona. The water park was wicked, too. (As Ryan best described it, "It's not just water slides. It's water slides that you have to take a ski lift to and wear helments for!") Ryan was with his girlfriend, her sister and another couple, and we all had an excellent time. Apparently, in Canada, going to a water park is kind of a big thing that everyone does during the summer. Given the length and intensity of the winters here, I guess I can see it, but you don't really see a lot of Americans in their 30s get excited about water slides.
I have a new student. I lept into the elevator at school one day (literally, the door was closing, so I ran and jumped in) and the woman inside was a bit surprised by my action. She was clearly Chinese so I smiled at her and asked her where she was from. "China," she said simply. "Where in China?" I pressed. "In the north", she said. "OH! Ni shi dongbei ren" I said ("You're a northeasterner!"). We got to talking and it turned out that she was from Dalian, the first city I lived in in China. I told her I was a teacher and then, on the spot, she asked me to give her lessons. Never one to turn down easy money, I accepted her offer. I now teach her twice a week for an hour and a half each time and we focus mostly on pronunciation (liaison and intonation). She's a very nice lady. She and her 12-year-old daughter came to Canada three years ago when her husband got a job here.
It's really quite nice to have the Chinese connection. Michelle, my student, has shown me how to get around and where to buy food at the best prices. Also, last Friday, she took me to a tofu factory run by a Chinese lady who grew up in Taipei. Apparently all Chinese people know this place that is tucked away in a very residential area. The factory produces all sorts of soy products, including soy milk, and for less than $5, I walked away with a brick of firm tofu, a bag of fermented soy beans and a litre of soy milk. The proprietess, an absolutely glamorous middle-aged lady who wore red lipstick and kept her black hair in fingerwaves under a discreet hairnet, was also very proud to inform me, in a mix of Chinese and English, that her operation produces strictly organic products and had the certificate on the wall to prove it. She also doesn't believe in waste, so when customers come directly to the factory for tofu, they have to bring their own containters. The woman who came in after us, followed by a rather patient looking laowai who clearly spoke no Chinese, brought in a giant silver dish that looked like it was going straight back into the kitchen once it left the building. Hooray for being Chinese!
On Sunday, I went and saw David Sedaris speak at Indigo Bookstore. He was brilliant, as expected, and I was chuffed to be able to attend such an event, free of charge, just by virtue of being in a major world city again. The place was packed, but as I was on my own, a security guard led me to an empty seat in front of the stage! Sedaris read a bit of his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, then he took questions from the audience. Someone asked about his writing process and he mentioned that he often gets people in graduate writing programs at his readings. He says that he always tells them: "Don't waste your time with grad school! If you want to be a writer you should become a prostitute! And there are two very good reasons for this. The first is, when you're young, people will want to sleep with you. Even the most homely 25-year-old can find a 50-year-old who will want to sleep with them and who will pay for it! Second, being a prostitute will get you into all kinds of adventures and you'll have plenty to write about when you're old and withered." This I found rather amusing. And it reminds me of something I read in an interview with Hemingway. When asked what he "would consider to be the best intellectual training for the would-be writer", he said, "He said, 'Let’s say that he [would-be writer] should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.' I have so much to do before becoming a writer...!
David Sedaris also shared, the exact details of which he found in a little blue notebook he kept in his breast pocked, that the night before he had met a woman whose mother's name was Jackie Chan and whose father's was Dick Hornballer. (To which he responded, "Why didn't he just go by Richard?") I liked this story because this is the kind of stuff I note, as well.
So that's the current run-down. There may be more henceforth.
"Bernanke Is Pessimistic, but Bush Urges a ‘Deep Breath’"
Fret not, fellow Americans! Our economy is taking a turn down the shitter, but all will be fine if we just BREATHE a little! Let's hope that Unkie George doesn't just pass out, or do something like learn to read, with all that oxygen going to his brain for the first time in his life!
In all events, I'm in a chipper mood because I'm in Montreal! What a great city! I got a sublet for the month of July and I'm smack dab in the middle of downtown. I'm living on Bishop Street which is one parallel street over from the celebrated Crescent Street (the reasons for which it is celebrated are unknown to me, especially as it looks a lot like MOST of the streets surrounding it, but all the guidebooks suggest that it's something special). I'm studying French at the YMCA and that's just three blocks away. Classes run from 8:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. and in the mornings it's grammar and in the afternoons, conversation. I'm learning all sorts of things that I should have learned ages ago and I'm finally developing a base on which to attach the many colorful French words and expressions I have learned over the years. This means I can now use slang and vulgarities in the passive voice, the past conditional and the plus-que-parfait. Si tu n'avais pas ete un connard saoul le hier soir, tu n'aurais pas eu la guelle de bois ce matin. (If you hadn't been a drunken bastard last night, you wouldn't have had a hang-over this morning.)
Like most YMCAs, this one that houses a language school is also home to a fitness center--one that is very well-equipped and well-maintained. They offer dozens of classes, a lap pool, an indoor running track and an impressive array of resistance training equipment. They've got a class I've been to twice called "Boot Camp Circuit Training". The first time I went, we went outdoors, climbed a million stairs, then the height of Mont Royal four times (I only did two), played tag, did a bunch of push-ups, then worked with resistance bands in pairs. Last night, I went back for more torture, but this time we stayed indoors. We ran, hopped, jumped, did a lot of push-ups, worked with weights and stretched and by the end of it I managed to bruise my right thumb in a wheelbarrow race (oh! it was so much easier when I was 8!) then scrape open AND bruise my left shin leaping over a step that was clearly too high for my 26-inch inseam. Awesome!
Aside from studying and working out, I have settled into my neighborhood and found a health food store, a Chinese supermarket and a very good western supermarket. I've been cooking a lot and I find that making my own food makes me feel more at home.
Other interesting events:
Ingrid, a girl I met in France in March recently came to Montreal with her boyfriend. It was her first trip to North America. We met up for lunch and we both came to the conclusion that my French is improving and no, no one but the Quebecois can understand the so-called French spoken here. This was very reassuring as I find little difficulty getting around France, but can't always understand basic conversation here.
The Montreal Jazz Festival was in full-swing when I arrived. I didn't get out to too many of the events, but I did see a silent film that was part of series shown in conjunction with the festival. It was "Underworld", from 1927, and it is considered to be one of the first films of the gangster genre. Being a silent film, there weren't any words spoken, but there was live music accompaniment which was pretty cool.
Last Friday, my school hosted an "International Lunch" whereby all students were invited to bring a dish representative of their home country. My school hosts an enormous number of South Americans and Mexicans, but there are also some students from Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Japan and Korea. My contribution to the event was six Spam musubi, cut into small pieces, then two cucumber and avocado rolls, cut maki style. To keep it simple, I told them it was "Hawaiian sushi". The Korean students seemed especially appreciative of the Spam musubi.
That evening, I was killing time on Facebook when I saw my old roommate from my time in London (circa 2000), Ryan, a Canadian, come online. I wrote and told him that I was in-country and he invited me to his "birthday weekend" at St. Sauveur Water Park. His brother lives in Montreal and I caught a ride up with him. His brother, Deryk, is an academic. He's working on his PhD in management and the conversation up to the water park went into the cerebral very quickly. It was really kind of nice, especially after an intellectually lonely and stifling year in Kona. The water park was wicked, too. (As Ryan best described it, "It's not just water slides. It's water slides that you have to take a ski lift to and wear helments for!") Ryan was with his girlfriend, her sister and another couple, and we all had an excellent time. Apparently, in Canada, going to a water park is kind of a big thing that everyone does during the summer. Given the length and intensity of the winters here, I guess I can see it, but you don't really see a lot of Americans in their 30s get excited about water slides.
I have a new student. I lept into the elevator at school one day (literally, the door was closing, so I ran and jumped in) and the woman inside was a bit surprised by my action. She was clearly Chinese so I smiled at her and asked her where she was from. "China," she said simply. "Where in China?" I pressed. "In the north", she said. "OH! Ni shi dongbei ren" I said ("You're a northeasterner!"). We got to talking and it turned out that she was from Dalian, the first city I lived in in China. I told her I was a teacher and then, on the spot, she asked me to give her lessons. Never one to turn down easy money, I accepted her offer. I now teach her twice a week for an hour and a half each time and we focus mostly on pronunciation (liaison and intonation). She's a very nice lady. She and her 12-year-old daughter came to Canada three years ago when her husband got a job here.
It's really quite nice to have the Chinese connection. Michelle, my student, has shown me how to get around and where to buy food at the best prices. Also, last Friday, she took me to a tofu factory run by a Chinese lady who grew up in Taipei. Apparently all Chinese people know this place that is tucked away in a very residential area. The factory produces all sorts of soy products, including soy milk, and for less than $5, I walked away with a brick of firm tofu, a bag of fermented soy beans and a litre of soy milk. The proprietess, an absolutely glamorous middle-aged lady who wore red lipstick and kept her black hair in fingerwaves under a discreet hairnet, was also very proud to inform me, in a mix of Chinese and English, that her operation produces strictly organic products and had the certificate on the wall to prove it. She also doesn't believe in waste, so when customers come directly to the factory for tofu, they have to bring their own containters. The woman who came in after us, followed by a rather patient looking laowai who clearly spoke no Chinese, brought in a giant silver dish that looked like it was going straight back into the kitchen once it left the building. Hooray for being Chinese!
On Sunday, I went and saw David Sedaris speak at Indigo Bookstore. He was brilliant, as expected, and I was chuffed to be able to attend such an event, free of charge, just by virtue of being in a major world city again. The place was packed, but as I was on my own, a security guard led me to an empty seat in front of the stage! Sedaris read a bit of his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, then he took questions from the audience. Someone asked about his writing process and he mentioned that he often gets people in graduate writing programs at his readings. He says that he always tells them: "Don't waste your time with grad school! If you want to be a writer you should become a prostitute! And there are two very good reasons for this. The first is, when you're young, people will want to sleep with you. Even the most homely 25-year-old can find a 50-year-old who will want to sleep with them and who will pay for it! Second, being a prostitute will get you into all kinds of adventures and you'll have plenty to write about when you're old and withered." This I found rather amusing. And it reminds me of something I read in an interview with Hemingway. When asked what he "would consider to be the best intellectual training for the would-be writer", he said, "He said, 'Let’s say that he [would-be writer] should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.' I have so much to do before becoming a writer...!
David Sedaris also shared, the exact details of which he found in a little blue notebook he kept in his breast pocked, that the night before he had met a woman whose mother's name was Jackie Chan and whose father's was Dick Hornballer. (To which he responded, "Why didn't he just go by Richard?") I liked this story because this is the kind of stuff I note, as well.
So that's the current run-down. There may be more henceforth.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Today is officially the second day of the October 1 holiday week. All of my students have cancelled on me, my school has closed (to be explained), IELTS will not be given until the weekend of the 14th, and while I still have writing work to do, all this has left me feeling exceptionally underwhelmed. I do now have an opportunity to put down a proper entry about what I've been up to, however.
The biggest news is that I've decided to put my masters on hold. I sent in the application for a one year's leave of absence last month, and while I have had word that it was received, I am awaiting final approval. Reasons for this decision were many, but the most salient was that I realized every spare second I had, along with every other spare penny I made, went into this program, and by the time I got to my year end finals (remember, this is a British course, so it all comes down to essays), I was really questioning whether or not it was worth it all in the end. I know this might sound like a weak attempt to cover up slack, or laziness on my part, but really, after a long think, a bit of screaming, and one moment of crying, I came to the conclusion that, while the material I was covering was highly engaging, two more years and another $8,000, might not bring me very much closer to my ultimate aims.
(And the crowds cry out, "Tell us, Maile! Tell us! What are those ultimate aims?!")
So like many a spoiled, middle-class, college educated, over-confident, under-skilled come recovering manic-depressive, yoga/insert your own brand of spirituality found brat, I, too, have wrestled with the great question of "What am I going to do with my life?!". This question, the quest for whose answer seems to best even the very best of us at around 24 or 25 (I believe someone who must have thought himself clever dubbed this ailment the "quarter-century crisis"), has consumed, or is presently consuming, most of the people I know in my age group, and even those older (they do say boys take longer to mature than girls). This affliction does seem to target a certain economic group (kids whose parents paid for their higher education), but culture offers no protection; I have met German, French, English, Chinese, Korean and Mexican sufferers.
Since I got out of school rather early--can you believe it's been more than 6 years already?!--I was fortunate to start this vicious process earlier, and as such, I am now sooner to feel its grip loosening. I concede, I'm not quite out of the woods completely, but I have found hope, and I do see light breaking through. Oddly enough, after all the agonizing, day dreaming, empire building and scrapping, soul-searching and expensive trips to the shrink, the elusive panacea we seem all struggle for, is actually something rather simple: just pick something. Pick something, something that hovers within the realm of reality, and then stick to it.
I want to be a journalist. Journalists are cool. They meet lots of interesting people, they get new things to do all the time and they work at different hours of the day, often in different places, and all of this appeals to me. What's more, I used to be a journalist, so I can with confidence say I know a bit about the work, and I know that I am competent enough to do it well enough to get paid for it. All of these are important considerations. The other thing I want to do is work in Asia. Lucky for me, I am already living here. (Actually, the desire came after the fact.) So, to put it succinctly, I want to be a journalist in Asia.
Once I made that decision, all the other decisions were easy to make. I started my masters (it is in Chinese business and international relations) because I felt it would give me the background necessary to look for jobs in journalism, here in China. (Research yielded that most of the journalism jobs in Asia are business and/or politics related.) I blew off my plans to go to France because I felt I could achieve more staying in here. I quit my regular job and found part-time work so I could focus on my ambitions. I also looked into getting internships, and here is where I found problems: 1. I was competing against recent journalism graduates who 2. maybe had better (foreign) language skills than me. Here was my dilemma. I was working so much that I didn't have time to study Chinese, and I didn't have time to write. I barely had time to sleep. So, I took the year off.
Very ironically, shortly after I quit my masters, my most generous employer, decided that my services were no longer needed. Ariston, the little boy I taught everyday for two hours, had reached the ripe old age of two and was good and ready for full-day kindergarten. To elaborate, what had happened was that a new brother came home, a cook got fired, the nanny took over all domestic duties, on top of managing the baby and the older brother who had a very serious case of sibling rivalry, Mom went back to work, so the tot was sent to school, and I was out of a cushy and reliable job.
There I was, no school, one job shy (I still had other students, plus the IELTS job, so I wasn't yet in a panic), and then something even more ironic, or rather fortuitous, happened: my pal Abel called me and offered me a job writing for a magazine. No shit.
Abel is one of the coolest people I have met in Beijing. At the tender age of 30, he's the bureau chief of Radio France International. He's been here years and years already, and he's very familiar with how the city works. One of his pals, Gregoire (these guys are all French, by the way) is the editor-in-chief of Colors Magazine (started by the Benetton people), and they were in need of writers for their upcoming issue profiling the issue.
Now, I'll tell you the difference between someone at the age of 20, and someone at the age of 26. At 20, you sincerely believe you'll make you're first million by 23, but if someone asks you to fax a document to a number in another city, and you don't already know how to do it, you panic, try to avoid the assignment, and then try to get someone else to do if for you. At 26, all you want is a job that doesn't suck too much, ideally one that has health benefits, and when someone offers you a job anywhere remotely in your area of interest, you say, in full confidence, "Yes. Yes. Gimme. Gimme. I can do it. No problem." Even if you know full well that you might not know exactly what you are doing, all of the silliness that you endure in your early 20s, assuming you overcome it, has the effect of making all obstacles look pretty similar, and eventually you realize, if you can conquer one, you can conquer them all.
So, I got the job. It's only a one-time, freelance gig, but I'm over the moon for it.
But let me tell you about French people. They are slow. I love them, but they are slow. Last summer, I worked with Germans, which was interesting. Germans are punctual to the point of absurdity ("OK, we will meet for breakfast at 9:32. Then we will start our meeting at 10:07"), but generally, their work practices are very compatible with Americans. French people, on the other hand, while very easy going, attentive, and passionate about their work, don't see the harm in having a cigarette and a cup of coffee before getting to an appointment. It's only life, after all.
When it comes to work, I am VERY American. Prolific communication is paramount, and I need to know what is happening at all times. If you tell me to call tomorrow, I will call tomorrow before noon. If I don't reach you, I will send an e-mail, and then call again before the day is out. Of course, I cut my teeth in the entertainment industry where everything is fast and one false step can get you fired, but I believe these are good work habits to have learned. If you're American, that is. French people are a bit different. Once they say they want you, that's it, they want you. But then you have to wait for their call. Or that how it seems to work, anyway.
Abel took more than a week to get back to me, and during that time, another funny thing happened. I was talking with an old colleague of mine who now is the director at the first school I taught at in Beijing. I mentioned that I was no longer teaching the two-year old, and I told him casually that if he ever needed someone to fill in if a teacher was ill, I'd be glad to do it. He called me the next day. Apparently, one of their teachers was very unhappy, so unhappy that she packed up her things and ran off like a thief in the night. She didn't tell her roommate, another teacher, about her plans. The next morning, the same morning they called me, they discovered what had happened when the roommate came to work and told them there wasn't a trace of the girl in the apartment. They asked me if I could come in to cover until a new teacher was produced, and I agreed to do so, on a part time basis, but at my current hourly rate, plus taxi fare (Ha! Ha! Ha! The power of scarce supply in high demand!)
So now, I'm back at Carden, teaching third grade (I must say, after two years, I'm much better at it), working for the magazine (they did call, but after a cigarette, or two), tutoring three students privately in the evenings, and working for the British Council on the weekends. I am thankful that I no longer have the demands of my masters course, and I am really quite impressed at how quickly I got busy, despite all the changes.
Dad once told me that he saw life as lugging around a sack. Throughout your life, you've got the same sack, and it's almost always full. Every time you think you've lightened your load by getting rid of something in the sack, you will inevitably quickly find something of equal mass to fill it up again. I don't know if this applies to all people, but I reckon I've inherited Dad's sack. It seems to be a big sack, and I seem to be forever yanking things out and stuffing in new ones, but at least it's quite clearly MY sack.
The biggest news is that I've decided to put my masters on hold. I sent in the application for a one year's leave of absence last month, and while I have had word that it was received, I am awaiting final approval. Reasons for this decision were many, but the most salient was that I realized every spare second I had, along with every other spare penny I made, went into this program, and by the time I got to my year end finals (remember, this is a British course, so it all comes down to essays), I was really questioning whether or not it was worth it all in the end. I know this might sound like a weak attempt to cover up slack, or laziness on my part, but really, after a long think, a bit of screaming, and one moment of crying, I came to the conclusion that, while the material I was covering was highly engaging, two more years and another $8,000, might not bring me very much closer to my ultimate aims.
(And the crowds cry out, "Tell us, Maile! Tell us! What are those ultimate aims?!")
So like many a spoiled, middle-class, college educated, over-confident, under-skilled come recovering manic-depressive, yoga/insert your own brand of spirituality found brat, I, too, have wrestled with the great question of "What am I going to do with my life?!". This question, the quest for whose answer seems to best even the very best of us at around 24 or 25 (I believe someone who must have thought himself clever dubbed this ailment the "quarter-century crisis"), has consumed, or is presently consuming, most of the people I know in my age group, and even those older (they do say boys take longer to mature than girls). This affliction does seem to target a certain economic group (kids whose parents paid for their higher education), but culture offers no protection; I have met German, French, English, Chinese, Korean and Mexican sufferers.
Since I got out of school rather early--can you believe it's been more than 6 years already?!--I was fortunate to start this vicious process earlier, and as such, I am now sooner to feel its grip loosening. I concede, I'm not quite out of the woods completely, but I have found hope, and I do see light breaking through. Oddly enough, after all the agonizing, day dreaming, empire building and scrapping, soul-searching and expensive trips to the shrink, the elusive panacea we seem all struggle for, is actually something rather simple: just pick something. Pick something, something that hovers within the realm of reality, and then stick to it.
I want to be a journalist. Journalists are cool. They meet lots of interesting people, they get new things to do all the time and they work at different hours of the day, often in different places, and all of this appeals to me. What's more, I used to be a journalist, so I can with confidence say I know a bit about the work, and I know that I am competent enough to do it well enough to get paid for it. All of these are important considerations. The other thing I want to do is work in Asia. Lucky for me, I am already living here. (Actually, the desire came after the fact.) So, to put it succinctly, I want to be a journalist in Asia.
Once I made that decision, all the other decisions were easy to make. I started my masters (it is in Chinese business and international relations) because I felt it would give me the background necessary to look for jobs in journalism, here in China. (Research yielded that most of the journalism jobs in Asia are business and/or politics related.) I blew off my plans to go to France because I felt I could achieve more staying in here. I quit my regular job and found part-time work so I could focus on my ambitions. I also looked into getting internships, and here is where I found problems: 1. I was competing against recent journalism graduates who 2. maybe had better (foreign) language skills than me. Here was my dilemma. I was working so much that I didn't have time to study Chinese, and I didn't have time to write. I barely had time to sleep. So, I took the year off.
Very ironically, shortly after I quit my masters, my most generous employer, decided that my services were no longer needed. Ariston, the little boy I taught everyday for two hours, had reached the ripe old age of two and was good and ready for full-day kindergarten. To elaborate, what had happened was that a new brother came home, a cook got fired, the nanny took over all domestic duties, on top of managing the baby and the older brother who had a very serious case of sibling rivalry, Mom went back to work, so the tot was sent to school, and I was out of a cushy and reliable job.
There I was, no school, one job shy (I still had other students, plus the IELTS job, so I wasn't yet in a panic), and then something even more ironic, or rather fortuitous, happened: my pal Abel called me and offered me a job writing for a magazine. No shit.
Abel is one of the coolest people I have met in Beijing. At the tender age of 30, he's the bureau chief of Radio France International. He's been here years and years already, and he's very familiar with how the city works. One of his pals, Gregoire (these guys are all French, by the way) is the editor-in-chief of Colors Magazine (started by the Benetton people), and they were in need of writers for their upcoming issue profiling the issue.
Now, I'll tell you the difference between someone at the age of 20, and someone at the age of 26. At 20, you sincerely believe you'll make you're first million by 23, but if someone asks you to fax a document to a number in another city, and you don't already know how to do it, you panic, try to avoid the assignment, and then try to get someone else to do if for you. At 26, all you want is a job that doesn't suck too much, ideally one that has health benefits, and when someone offers you a job anywhere remotely in your area of interest, you say, in full confidence, "Yes. Yes. Gimme. Gimme. I can do it. No problem." Even if you know full well that you might not know exactly what you are doing, all of the silliness that you endure in your early 20s, assuming you overcome it, has the effect of making all obstacles look pretty similar, and eventually you realize, if you can conquer one, you can conquer them all.
So, I got the job. It's only a one-time, freelance gig, but I'm over the moon for it.
But let me tell you about French people. They are slow. I love them, but they are slow. Last summer, I worked with Germans, which was interesting. Germans are punctual to the point of absurdity ("OK, we will meet for breakfast at 9:32. Then we will start our meeting at 10:07"), but generally, their work practices are very compatible with Americans. French people, on the other hand, while very easy going, attentive, and passionate about their work, don't see the harm in having a cigarette and a cup of coffee before getting to an appointment. It's only life, after all.
When it comes to work, I am VERY American. Prolific communication is paramount, and I need to know what is happening at all times. If you tell me to call tomorrow, I will call tomorrow before noon. If I don't reach you, I will send an e-mail, and then call again before the day is out. Of course, I cut my teeth in the entertainment industry where everything is fast and one false step can get you fired, but I believe these are good work habits to have learned. If you're American, that is. French people are a bit different. Once they say they want you, that's it, they want you. But then you have to wait for their call. Or that how it seems to work, anyway.
Abel took more than a week to get back to me, and during that time, another funny thing happened. I was talking with an old colleague of mine who now is the director at the first school I taught at in Beijing. I mentioned that I was no longer teaching the two-year old, and I told him casually that if he ever needed someone to fill in if a teacher was ill, I'd be glad to do it. He called me the next day. Apparently, one of their teachers was very unhappy, so unhappy that she packed up her things and ran off like a thief in the night. She didn't tell her roommate, another teacher, about her plans. The next morning, the same morning they called me, they discovered what had happened when the roommate came to work and told them there wasn't a trace of the girl in the apartment. They asked me if I could come in to cover until a new teacher was produced, and I agreed to do so, on a part time basis, but at my current hourly rate, plus taxi fare (Ha! Ha! Ha! The power of scarce supply in high demand!)
So now, I'm back at Carden, teaching third grade (I must say, after two years, I'm much better at it), working for the magazine (they did call, but after a cigarette, or two), tutoring three students privately in the evenings, and working for the British Council on the weekends. I am thankful that I no longer have the demands of my masters course, and I am really quite impressed at how quickly I got busy, despite all the changes.
Dad once told me that he saw life as lugging around a sack. Throughout your life, you've got the same sack, and it's almost always full. Every time you think you've lightened your load by getting rid of something in the sack, you will inevitably quickly find something of equal mass to fill it up again. I don't know if this applies to all people, but I reckon I've inherited Dad's sack. It seems to be a big sack, and I seem to be forever yanking things out and stuffing in new ones, but at least it's quite clearly MY sack.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
On Tuesday, Ariston's dad came home while I was giving Ariston his lesson. Usually, when either of the parents come home early, I cut the lesson short because Ariston is no longer interested in anything I can offer; Mom and Dad are much cooler than me.
So Ariston runs off to play with Dad and I go back to his room to tidy up. Five minutes later I hear screams to high heaven.
"Give it to me, Ariston," I hear his dad plead. Ariston just went on wailing. Then Dad comes into the room carrying the screaming, tearing, red-faced kid.
"What's wrong, Ariston?" I ask. In one fist he's got a red one-hundred yuan note. "I had some money out, he took it, and now, he won't let go of it," his father explained. "Ariston, give it back!" the father asked. Ariston would not give up the bill to save his life.
"Give it to Maile, then," Dad said, hoping I would be enough of a diversion to loosen his son's grip. Ariston gave me one look, paused, then continued screaming and crying.
One hundred yuan is about $12. It's the largest denomination of money available in China. For a kid in China, 100 yuan is easily as valuable as a hundred dollars for a kid in the States. There was precious little coming between the 20-month old Ariston and the money.
The expression "tight-fisted Chinaman" came to mind and I burst into laughter. "He's learned early," I told his dad. "Money and the ABCs...the basics are covered," his dad said.
I went into the other room, got my things together and when I went back to say goodbye, Ariston was being fed by his nanny and the cook. He still had his fist wrapped around the red bill. I laughed again, and said "goodbye". Ariston looked up from his lunch, smiled, and in perfect English, said, "money".
So Ariston runs off to play with Dad and I go back to his room to tidy up. Five minutes later I hear screams to high heaven.
"Give it to me, Ariston," I hear his dad plead. Ariston just went on wailing. Then Dad comes into the room carrying the screaming, tearing, red-faced kid.
"What's wrong, Ariston?" I ask. In one fist he's got a red one-hundred yuan note. "I had some money out, he took it, and now, he won't let go of it," his father explained. "Ariston, give it back!" the father asked. Ariston would not give up the bill to save his life.
"Give it to Maile, then," Dad said, hoping I would be enough of a diversion to loosen his son's grip. Ariston gave me one look, paused, then continued screaming and crying.
One hundred yuan is about $12. It's the largest denomination of money available in China. For a kid in China, 100 yuan is easily as valuable as a hundred dollars for a kid in the States. There was precious little coming between the 20-month old Ariston and the money.
The expression "tight-fisted Chinaman" came to mind and I burst into laughter. "He's learned early," I told his dad. "Money and the ABCs...the basics are covered," his dad said.I went into the other room, got my things together and when I went back to say goodbye, Ariston was being fed by his nanny and the cook. He still had his fist wrapped around the red bill. I laughed again, and said "goodbye". Ariston looked up from his lunch, smiled, and in perfect English, said, "money".
Saturday, April 01, 2006
There is a new man in my life. I met him a couple of months ago, and now I spend time with him nearly everyday. He comes from a very good family (in fact, I think his parents are loaded), and while he doesn't talk too much, he demonstrates a quick intelligence.
Ariston is very sensitive, and there are times when he cannot control his emotions. I have learned to have patience with him. I realize that boys from good families like to have their way. But mostly, Ariston and I get along swimmingly. He's a very good looking fellow, and he drools all over for me. I must admit he is shamelessly fascinated with my breasts, which he sometimes demonstrates at the most inappropriate of times, but hey, we've all got our foibles, don't we?
This is Ariston.
You see, he's a senstive boy.
Ariston is very sensitive, and there are times when he cannot control his emotions. I have learned to have patience with him. I realize that boys from good families like to have their way. But mostly, Ariston and I get along swimmingly. He's a very good looking fellow, and he drools all over for me. I must admit he is shamelessly fascinated with my breasts, which he sometimes demonstrates at the most inappropriate of times, but hey, we've all got our foibles, don't we?
This is Ariston.
You see, he's a senstive boy.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Discipline is the foreign teacher's greatest challenge. Different cultures and language barriers, on top of the mysterious ways of children, make knowing what to do foggy, but as anyone who has ever taught, even for a very short time, knows, discipline is essential if you are to get anything done.
In general, for the sake of my sanity, I rule my classes with an iron fist. I have found (through intimate experience) that leniency resulting from the desire to "be a friend" and "make learning fun" is the gaff of a beginner, especially in Confucian Asia, where education is serious business and social lines are quite clear. And I know, that even at my strictest, I am nowhere near the level of fascist at which most Asian (especially Chinese) teachers rule. I have never hit a kid, and I don't think I could (although I understand now why someone would), but some of the Korean teachers I work with keep long sticks on their desks.
My least favorite class is my third and fourth grade "B" class (the classes are graded "A" through "D," "D" being the near equivalent of "gifted and talented" in the States, and "A" being "you are here because you are too young for prison"). As kids, the kids in this class are alright. They're pretty cute and pretty social, but as students, but for a few exceptions, they suck. They play, draw, talk too much, or not at all, sleep and take frequent trips to the toilet and clinic. We actually get very little done in this class, as they are slow to catch on to new ideas (go ahead, blame the teacher) and I spend much of my time telling them to stop throwing, eating, sleeping, drawing, hitting, kicking and talking.
Ron sits in the back of the class. He wears glasses, is always quiet and, except for when I stand directly behind to monitor his activity, he is endlessy drawing pictures of tanks, guns and people shooting each other.
I usually get to class a few minutes early and on Monday, Ron came up to my desk as if tell me something. But, instead of saying anything, he sticks his tongue out at me then walks away with a very slight smirk. I held back the laughter. To be fair, he caught me off guard, and it was pretty funny. I was going to let it slide until Eric, another student, yells across the class "Teacher! He --points to his tongue and then to me--you?!" The little punk me the butt of the joke (and let's face it, I have a hard enough time preventing myself from making me the butt of many jokes)and because of that, just to maintain some semblance of authority, Ron had to be punished.
The bell rang and I called Ron up to the front of the class. I pointed for him to stand just next to me and he knew exactly why as he instantly got down on his knees (as Asian thing). The whole kow-tow routine makes me a bit uncomfortable, so I told him "Just stand there and don't move until I tell you." And he did. For about 43 seconds. I turned back, "Ron, stand still. Put your hands down. Look forward!" He did. For a bit. And then I corrected him again, and this carried on for about five minutes until he finally gave up and just stood there.
Class continued and Ron stood there. It was my intention to keep him there the duration of the class, or until he started looking genuinely sorry, but when the class got into their readers, the kid started wiggling. "Ron, stand still," I ordered and then, for no reason apparent, Ron started back for his desk. "Ron...!" I started when, after two feeble steps the kid's legs went out from under him. He fell off the step (my desk is on a riser), and went down head first smacking his face, hard, against the corner of another student's desk. He hit the floor with a thud then rolled onto his back, tangling up his feet in the legs of student's desk across the aisle. I dropped the book and ran. "Ron!" I yelled. By this point all of the kids were out of their seats and hovering.
"Teacher! Teacher! You --drags his finger across his neck--him!" one kid yelled! "He's not dead! I said, allowing the notion to cross my mind, "Go get another teacher!" I told one of the girls.
Ron lay there and but for tears welling up under his glasses, he didn't move. The corner of his right nostril was clearly torn and started bleeding. And then gushing. "Go to the toilet and get paper!" I told another kid. I moved the desk he had his legs caught in out of the way and I put my sweater under his head.
Kids are really tricky. It's hard to know what they're up to sometimes. A stomachache might be a stomachache, but 70 percent of the time, it's scam to get out of class, and teachers bear the burden of having to act on what we perceive to be the truth. Having relatively little experience with kids, I tend to err on the side of caution, but this can often be the wrong thing to do, too, as the kids can and will take advantage of it. So with Ron, I was caught. He was clearly hurt, but the nagging voice of reason was telling me he was camping it up for effect ever so slightly.
Fortunately, two teachers from the next door classes came to my rescue and the kids rattled away recounting the tale in Korean. "Did he hit his head?" they asked. "Really hard!" I explained. I showed them what happened. The Korean teachers fussed over Ron and I ran out for more tissue as his nose was really going. He was up off the floor when I got back and the teachers hauled him off. I apologized profusely, but they didn't seem to think anything was too serious.
Needless to say, class was difficult to resume, but I got the kids back into their chairs and we finished our reading. Class ended without further incident and I went straight to my boss to tell him what happened. Ron was in there in the teacher's room, waiting for his parents, his nose held shut with a giant strip of tape, when I came in. He refused to look at me.
"These things happen," my boss said, much to my amazement and relief, "kids are kids." My Korean co-teacher (we teach the same classes alternately), Wendy, tended to Ron. I explained the whole story to her. Apparently, they all thought he just fell - the part where he was punished for sticking out his tongue at me was neglected somehow. "I see..." she said, which made me feel worse, like I was ratting the kid out.
After school, Ron's parents came. They were an exceptionally well-groomed Korean couple and instead of being pissed and litigious, as I feared (as any American parents would be), they were very polite and grateful for our care. Wendy explained the story and on the way out, much to my astonishment, Ron's mother smacked him upside the back of his head.
I was in the clear.
So from this ordeal, lessons have been learned: Korean parents are reasonable, kids are kids and the next time someone is naughty, I'm sticking them in a chair.
EPILOGUE:
Ron missed class the next day, but came back the day after with huge swathes of gauze taped to the middle of his face. I caught him drawing again, and took away his sketch books, WITH RESISTANCE.
In general, for the sake of my sanity, I rule my classes with an iron fist. I have found (through intimate experience) that leniency resulting from the desire to "be a friend" and "make learning fun" is the gaff of a beginner, especially in Confucian Asia, where education is serious business and social lines are quite clear. And I know, that even at my strictest, I am nowhere near the level of fascist at which most Asian (especially Chinese) teachers rule. I have never hit a kid, and I don't think I could (although I understand now why someone would), but some of the Korean teachers I work with keep long sticks on their desks.
My least favorite class is my third and fourth grade "B" class (the classes are graded "A" through "D," "D" being the near equivalent of "gifted and talented" in the States, and "A" being "you are here because you are too young for prison"). As kids, the kids in this class are alright. They're pretty cute and pretty social, but as students, but for a few exceptions, they suck. They play, draw, talk too much, or not at all, sleep and take frequent trips to the toilet and clinic. We actually get very little done in this class, as they are slow to catch on to new ideas (go ahead, blame the teacher) and I spend much of my time telling them to stop throwing, eating, sleeping, drawing, hitting, kicking and talking.
Ron sits in the back of the class. He wears glasses, is always quiet and, except for when I stand directly behind to monitor his activity, he is endlessy drawing pictures of tanks, guns and people shooting each other.
I usually get to class a few minutes early and on Monday, Ron came up to my desk as if tell me something. But, instead of saying anything, he sticks his tongue out at me then walks away with a very slight smirk. I held back the laughter. To be fair, he caught me off guard, and it was pretty funny. I was going to let it slide until Eric, another student, yells across the class "Teacher! He --points to his tongue and then to me--
The bell rang and I called Ron up to the front of the class. I pointed for him to stand just next to me and he knew exactly why as he instantly got down on his knees (as Asian thing). The whole kow-tow routine makes me a bit uncomfortable, so I told him "Just stand there and don't move until I tell you." And he did. For about 43 seconds. I turned back, "Ron, stand still. Put your hands down. Look forward!" He did. For a bit. And then I corrected him again, and this carried on for about five minutes until he finally gave up and just stood there.
Class continued and Ron stood there. It was my intention to keep him there the duration of the class, or until he started looking genuinely sorry, but when the class got into their readers, the kid started wiggling. "Ron, stand still," I ordered and then, for no reason apparent, Ron started back for his desk. "Ron...!" I started when, after two feeble steps the kid's legs went out from under him. He fell off the step (my desk is on a riser), and went down head first smacking his face, hard, against the corner of another student's desk. He hit the floor with a thud then rolled onto his back, tangling up his feet in the legs of student's desk across the aisle. I dropped the book and ran. "Ron!" I yelled. By this point all of the kids were out of their seats and hovering.
"Teacher! Teacher! You --drags his finger across his neck--
Ron lay there and but for tears welling up under his glasses, he didn't move. The corner of his right nostril was clearly torn and started bleeding. And then gushing. "Go to the toilet and get paper!" I told another kid. I moved the desk he had his legs caught in out of the way and I put my sweater under his head.
Kids are really tricky. It's hard to know what they're up to sometimes. A stomachache might be a stomachache, but 70 percent of the time, it's scam to get out of class, and teachers bear the burden of having to act on what we perceive to be the truth. Having relatively little experience with kids, I tend to err on the side of caution, but this can often be the wrong thing to do, too, as the kids can and will take advantage of it. So with Ron, I was caught. He was clearly hurt, but the nagging voice of reason was telling me he was camping it up for effect ever so slightly.
Fortunately, two teachers from the next door classes came to my rescue and the kids rattled away recounting the tale in Korean. "Did he hit his head?" they asked. "Really hard!" I explained. I showed them what happened. The Korean teachers fussed over Ron and I ran out for more tissue as his nose was really going. He was up off the floor when I got back and the teachers hauled him off. I apologized profusely, but they didn't seem to think anything was too serious.
Needless to say, class was difficult to resume, but I got the kids back into their chairs and we finished our reading. Class ended without further incident and I went straight to my boss to tell him what happened. Ron was in there in the teacher's room, waiting for his parents, his nose held shut with a giant strip of tape, when I came in. He refused to look at me.
"These things happen," my boss said, much to my amazement and relief, "kids are kids." My Korean co-teacher (we teach the same classes alternately), Wendy, tended to Ron. I explained the whole story to her. Apparently, they all thought he just fell - the part where he was punished for sticking out his tongue at me was neglected somehow. "I see..." she said, which made me feel worse, like I was ratting the kid out.
After school, Ron's parents came. They were an exceptionally well-groomed Korean couple and instead of being pissed and litigious, as I feared (as any American parents would be), they were very polite and grateful for our care. Wendy explained the story and on the way out, much to my astonishment, Ron's mother smacked him upside the back of his head.
I was in the clear.
So from this ordeal, lessons have been learned: Korean parents are reasonable, kids are kids and the next time someone is naughty, I'm sticking them in a chair.
EPILOGUE:
Ron missed class the next day, but came back the day after with huge swathes of gauze taped to the middle of his face. I caught him drawing again, and took away his sketch books, WITH RESISTANCE.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Oh we're going to a huki lau!
Children's Day was June 1. It was a big to do for the school and our department spent two weeks teaching the children songs and dances. There was supposed to be a performance competition and my boss made a huge effort to be sure that our routine was the most original and creative. Any ideas as to who came up with the Huki Lau?
The competition was cancelled in the end (we all suspect that the other departments caught wind of what we were up to and called the whole thing off), but the kids performed non-competitively.
Our kids made waves with their Aloha shirts, leis and skirts and for the most part, the parents were thrilled to see their little darlings steal the show against their uniform clad contemporaries in the other departments.
This is Lauren, one of my best third graders. Here is she doing an excellent job of hiding her protests of "Miss Cannon, can I go now?"
The competition was cancelled in the end (we all suspect that the other departments caught wind of what we were up to and called the whole thing off), but the kids performed non-competitively.
Our kids made waves with their Aloha shirts, leis and skirts and for the most part, the parents were thrilled to see their little darlings steal the show against their uniform clad contemporaries in the other departments.
This is Lauren, one of my best third graders. Here is she doing an excellent job of hiding her protests of "Miss Cannon, can I go now?"
Becoming a Young Pioneer
In China, you'll see most Chinese school students wear a red scarf around their necks. This means that the child has attained the status of "Young Pioneer," the party equivalent of having received first communion.
Up to rather recently, children had to prove themselves fit for the honor by demonstrating their academic prowess and mastery of all things Young Pioneerness, but now, especially at my school where the children come from affluent families, all of the students receive the title.
On Children's Day, all of our first graders received the stamp of Young Pioneer and in this photograph you can see the older students bequeathing the little ones with the red scarves.
The children, of course, take all of this rather seriously. If my third and fourth graders are any indication of what's to come, I'm sure the little ones will wait almost a week before they start wrapping their scarves around their heads, their waists and sucking on the ends until they're gooey and frayed.
Up to rather recently, children had to prove themselves fit for the honor by demonstrating their academic prowess and mastery of all things Young Pioneerness, but now, especially at my school where the children come from affluent families, all of the students receive the title.
On Children's Day, all of our first graders received the stamp of Young Pioneer and in this photograph you can see the older students bequeathing the little ones with the red scarves.
The children, of course, take all of this rather seriously. If my third and fourth graders are any indication of what's to come, I'm sure the little ones will wait almost a week before they start wrapping their scarves around their heads, their waists and sucking on the ends until they're gooey and frayed.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
I'm back Beijing. In fact, I've been back a month. Forgive the delay and the impending brevity...I've been super busy. I've got two jobs at the moment and I'm tutoring a special group on Friday afternoons. Things are going along and I'm hoarding every fen. I will write more when the opportunity presents itself.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Just a quick post. I will be back in Kona on the 23rd. Things have been crazy here as our schedules are wacky due to the upcoming holiday. Here is another writing assignment from one of my fourth graders.
Untitled
By Larry, age 9
Ms. Yang is our English teacher. Her English is very good and she is very strict. Ms. Cannon is our English teacher. Her English is better than Ms. Yang's. She is very cute. [Really, he wrote this.] Sometimes Ms. Cannon is angry.
Untitled
By Larry, age 9
Ms. Yang is our English teacher. Her English is very good and she is very strict. Ms. Cannon is our English teacher. Her English is better than Ms. Yang's. She is very cute. [Really, he wrote this.] Sometimes Ms. Cannon is angry.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Those who know me know that I'm not a huge fan of kids. I suppose this sounds a bit strange given that I am a school teacher, but it's true. Kids are smelly, noisy, demanding, manipulative, self-centered and completely unable of getting through the day without adult attention. What this job has taught me, though is that children can also be quick to learn, genuinely good natured, creative and because they have yet to develop a solid idea of what society determines to be "right" and "wrong," they are prone to saying whatever is on their minds at the moment, and often what they say is funny.
I was walking down the hall when I heard little voices yelling "Miss Cannon! Miss Cannon!" I turned to see two girls waving at me from their line where they wait to get into class. There were really small, second graders, so I didn't know them.
I say hello. One girl pipes up, "Miss Cannon! I like you!" The other parrots the first, "I like you!" I laughed. I had no idea who these kids were.
"Why do you like me?" I asked the girls. "Huh?" They didn't understand me. "Why?" I asked again. "Huuuhhhh?" They still didn't understand. "Weishenme?" I finally asked them in Chinese. Their teacher can worry about their English.
The first girl, without thinking about it says "You is very cute!" I laughed. The second girl chimed in, "You is cute!" I laughed and told them that they were very cute and that I like them, too.
Kids also have a keen sense of character.
I was walking down the hall when I heard little voices yelling "Miss Cannon! Miss Cannon!" I turned to see two girls waving at me from their line where they wait to get into class. There were really small, second graders, so I didn't know them.
I say hello. One girl pipes up, "Miss Cannon! I like you!" The other parrots the first, "I like you!" I laughed. I had no idea who these kids were.
"Why do you like me?" I asked the girls. "Huh?" They didn't understand me. "Why?" I asked again. "Huuuhhhh?" They still didn't understand. "Weishenme?" I finally asked them in Chinese. Their teacher can worry about their English.
The first girl, without thinking about it says "You is very cute!" I laughed. The second girl chimed in, "You is cute!" I laughed and told them that they were very cute and that I like them, too.
Kids also have a keen sense of character.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Come teach English in China...
My school is already looking to recruit teachers for next Fall. Anyone out there looking for a job?
The job itself is what it is. You teach an English curriculum to young Chinese children. It's not the best curriculum in the world, but it's hardly the worst and it's a curriculum. You don't have to invent your own. The classes are small: only 15. Each class has a Chinese teaching assistant and to be honest, that person does most of the work.
The kids are kids: noisy, smelly, greedy, they cry, bleed--but they can be cute, surprising and eager to do good. I have third and fourth grade, so their level of English is impressive, especially my fourth graders.
The school is one of Beijing's elite. We are the American department. The facilities are nice, especially for China, but we still use chalk and blackboards. We technically teach 15 hours per week, but we spend a lot of time more at school with lunch breaks and grading. It's still no 9 to 5.
My boss is amazing! She will take care of you! She will listen to you and do her best to make you comfortable! When I got hurt, my boss came to my home, made me dinner and then did my laundry and cleaned my apartment! She speaks good English and knows how to relate to Westerners (she lived in California for 20 years)! She will take you to dinner and get you liquored up! She is one of the best bosses I have ever had and in China, finding a good boss is like finding a clean toilet in the countryside.
The goods: The pay is 5000 RMB per month. Not a lot in dollars, but more than enough to get by here. I actually SAVE money here. You also get a place to live (my place is pretty big and comfortable), basic utilities are paid (not phone) and a driver comes every morning to take the teachers to school. We have emergency health insurance and all of our paperwork (residence permits and things like that) are sorted out for us by the school. Also, the school pays for your plane ticket: half up front and half after you finish the school year (it's fair).
Living in China is not like living in any developed nation. It's dirty, inefficient and crowded. You cannot drink the water and nobody has a clothes dryer. The people can be rude and ignorant, but they can also be the most genuinely kind people you'll meet. The city is old, but always building. People still shop in open air markets (though there are plenty of huge foreign supermarkets), but everyone has a cell phone. The buses are slow and smelly, but the subway is fast, cheap and clean. The bread and cheese is awful, but if you go looking, you'll find the real McCoy better than it is at home. Being the capital of China, Beijing attracts people from all over the world, so there are always interesting people to meet. There is a night life here, beer is cheap (though you can blow a budget clubbing) and there are 24-hour restaurants that serve cheap meals. Beijing has theatre, film, music (not stellar, but not bad), gyms, parks, museums, food stalls, talkative cab drivers, fortune 500 headquarters, universities, pretty Chinese girls, handsome foreign men (I suppose there are some good looking Chinese boys, as well), shopping, bootlegged DVDs, bookstores and EVERYTHING. I like it a lot here and I highly recommend it.
To work at my school you must:
1. Be a North American native English speaker
2. Have at the least a 4-year degree in any subject
3. Tolerate small children
4. Have a sense of humor and be flexible (again, China is not efficient)
5. Not be a dirty old man.
6. Not be an asshole. (I don't want an asshole teaching my kids!)
7. Have a sense of adventure.
Write me if you have any questions. This is serious. We need some good people to be teachers next year. Tell your friends.
My school is already looking to recruit teachers for next Fall. Anyone out there looking for a job?
The job itself is what it is. You teach an English curriculum to young Chinese children. It's not the best curriculum in the world, but it's hardly the worst and it's a curriculum. You don't have to invent your own. The classes are small: only 15. Each class has a Chinese teaching assistant and to be honest, that person does most of the work.
The kids are kids: noisy, smelly, greedy, they cry, bleed--but they can be cute, surprising and eager to do good. I have third and fourth grade, so their level of English is impressive, especially my fourth graders.
The school is one of Beijing's elite. We are the American department. The facilities are nice, especially for China, but we still use chalk and blackboards. We technically teach 15 hours per week, but we spend a lot of time more at school with lunch breaks and grading. It's still no 9 to 5.
My boss is amazing! She will take care of you! She will listen to you and do her best to make you comfortable! When I got hurt, my boss came to my home, made me dinner and then did my laundry and cleaned my apartment! She speaks good English and knows how to relate to Westerners (she lived in California for 20 years)! She will take you to dinner and get you liquored up! She is one of the best bosses I have ever had and in China, finding a good boss is like finding a clean toilet in the countryside.
The goods: The pay is 5000 RMB per month. Not a lot in dollars, but more than enough to get by here. I actually SAVE money here. You also get a place to live (my place is pretty big and comfortable), basic utilities are paid (not phone) and a driver comes every morning to take the teachers to school. We have emergency health insurance and all of our paperwork (residence permits and things like that) are sorted out for us by the school. Also, the school pays for your plane ticket: half up front and half after you finish the school year (it's fair).
Living in China is not like living in any developed nation. It's dirty, inefficient and crowded. You cannot drink the water and nobody has a clothes dryer. The people can be rude and ignorant, but they can also be the most genuinely kind people you'll meet. The city is old, but always building. People still shop in open air markets (though there are plenty of huge foreign supermarkets), but everyone has a cell phone. The buses are slow and smelly, but the subway is fast, cheap and clean. The bread and cheese is awful, but if you go looking, you'll find the real McCoy better than it is at home. Being the capital of China, Beijing attracts people from all over the world, so there are always interesting people to meet. There is a night life here, beer is cheap (though you can blow a budget clubbing) and there are 24-hour restaurants that serve cheap meals. Beijing has theatre, film, music (not stellar, but not bad), gyms, parks, museums, food stalls, talkative cab drivers, fortune 500 headquarters, universities, pretty Chinese girls, handsome foreign men (I suppose there are some good looking Chinese boys, as well), shopping, bootlegged DVDs, bookstores and EVERYTHING. I like it a lot here and I highly recommend it.
To work at my school you must:
1. Be a North American native English speaker
2. Have at the least a 4-year degree in any subject
3. Tolerate small children
4. Have a sense of humor and be flexible (again, China is not efficient)
5. Not be a dirty old man.
6. Not be an asshole. (I don't want an asshole teaching my kids!)
7. Have a sense of adventure.
Write me if you have any questions. This is serious. We need some good people to be teachers next year. Tell your friends.
Monday, December 06, 2004
We do writing in fourth grade on Fridays. Writing consists of filling out a predesigned form that follows a very rigid and often very dull pattern. I don't like it, the kids don't like it, but we do it because we have to. What the students often do, probably to stay awake, is use each other's names in their stories. Some of the time it's quite innocent, but much of time what they write about each other tends to get pretty nasty. The words "poop," "stink," "ugly," "kill," "yucky" and "dead" are often used liberally. As much as I think it's funny, and in my defense it does keep them interested in their work, I end up having to limit the practice. I am the grown up after all.
Last week's exercise was especially dull, so after the kids finished it, I gave them the option of writing a form paragraph, per design, or writing anything of their choosing as long as it wasn't too nasty, or too easy, ie. "My name is Jessica. I am nine years old. I live in Beijing..."
Here is the story written by Michelle. It is the first time that my name has made it into a writing exercise. I can only guess that this means I am "getting through to them," but I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
A LOVE STORY
By Michelle Liu, age 9
An ant named Poop was very ugly, but he was kind too. He had no friends. He lived by himself. He wanted to marry the pretty anteater Cannon. He wanted to see her, but he was afraid that she would eat him. But he loved Cannon! At last he went to meet her. He said “Oh, my sweet, I love you. I know you will eat me, but in my life, if I can see you, even if you eat me, I will be happy!” Cannon didn’t say anything. She ate Poop. But Poop loved her until the end.
The end.
Last week's exercise was especially dull, so after the kids finished it, I gave them the option of writing a form paragraph, per design, or writing anything of their choosing as long as it wasn't too nasty, or too easy, ie. "My name is Jessica. I am nine years old. I live in Beijing..."
Here is the story written by Michelle. It is the first time that my name has made it into a writing exercise. I can only guess that this means I am "getting through to them," but I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
A LOVE STORY
By Michelle Liu, age 9
An ant named Poop was very ugly, but he was kind too. He had no friends. He lived by himself. He wanted to marry the pretty anteater Cannon. He wanted to see her, but he was afraid that she would eat him. But he loved Cannon! At last he went to meet her. He said “Oh, my sweet, I love you. I know you will eat me, but in my life, if I can see you, even if you eat me, I will be happy!” Cannon didn’t say anything. She ate Poop. But Poop loved her until the end.
The end.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
I broke the news to my fourth graders this morning. For nine year olds living in a country where all of the media is tightly regulated by the government, they're fairly well informed. More than the average American, I'd say, at this point.
"But why, Ms. Cannon?!" whined Michelle. She always wears pig tails high up on her head and she's one of my brighter students. "We don't like Bush. He should let another person have a chance. He's very selfish." I couldn't respond. Bright, aptly named, threw his head back. "No! Bush likes war very much. Chinese people don't like war." Andrew, who changed his name to Jeremiah this week, was grinning. So was Ernest, a quiet boy who sits next to him. "Ernest, are you happy that Bush won?" He nodded his head and the newly dubbed Jeremiah yelled "Yeah!" I asked them why. Bright answered for him. "Because he likes wars!" Jeremiah grinned. "And what about you, Ernest, why do you like Bush?" He thought about it and quietly said "his face, I like it." I laughed. As good an answer as any, I suppose. I reckon the reasoning behind most of the people who voted ran along similar lines. Too bad Kerry couldn't have take votes from Chinese primary school children. He would've won hand over fist. Fuck Ohio.
Here are choice bits of e-mail I have received since and about the election from friends:
"It [Bush's re-election] even sent Arafat into a freakin' coma, which nothing else was able to do in, what, the last four decades."
"I'm so sorry you have to tell people you are American."
"Among the things that really should have counted against him: He can't eat a
pretzel, he can't ride a bike and he really should not be around small
animals: The guy dropped his dog! Since then, I have never seen a photo of
Barney with him."
"This is empirical proof of exactly how many people in this country
are hicks."
"The fact is that, even if Bush did lie to America about going to war, most people don't care because they like the idea that we are killing "towel-heads" and "sand niggers." This is especially true of evangelical 'christians.'"
"Kerry would have continued the war in Iraq anyway, so what's the big
deal?" However, "the big deal is that Bush will pack the court with radical
right-wingers, who may help overturn decisions like Roe v. Wade and
Lawrence v. Texas," and "it is likely that the U.S. will attempt to occupy Iran."
To sum up: "Shit."
As a comforting aside, Kevin Larocco reminded me that "no one has ever proved that rational thought is an evolutionary advantage."
"But why, Ms. Cannon?!" whined Michelle. She always wears pig tails high up on her head and she's one of my brighter students. "We don't like Bush. He should let another person have a chance. He's very selfish." I couldn't respond. Bright, aptly named, threw his head back. "No! Bush likes war very much. Chinese people don't like war." Andrew, who changed his name to Jeremiah this week, was grinning. So was Ernest, a quiet boy who sits next to him. "Ernest, are you happy that Bush won?" He nodded his head and the newly dubbed Jeremiah yelled "Yeah!" I asked them why. Bright answered for him. "Because he likes wars!" Jeremiah grinned. "And what about you, Ernest, why do you like Bush?" He thought about it and quietly said "his face, I like it." I laughed. As good an answer as any, I suppose. I reckon the reasoning behind most of the people who voted ran along similar lines. Too bad Kerry couldn't have take votes from Chinese primary school children. He would've won hand over fist. Fuck Ohio.
Here are choice bits of e-mail I have received since and about the election from friends:
"It [Bush's re-election] even sent Arafat into a freakin' coma, which nothing else was able to do in, what, the last four decades."
"I'm so sorry you have to tell people you are American."
"Among the things that really should have counted against him: He can't eat a
pretzel, he can't ride a bike and he really should not be around small
animals: The guy dropped his dog! Since then, I have never seen a photo of
Barney with him."
"This is empirical proof of exactly how many people in this country
are hicks."
"The fact is that, even if Bush did lie to America about going to war, most people don't care because they like the idea that we are killing "towel-heads" and "sand niggers." This is especially true of evangelical 'christians.'"
"Kerry would have continued the war in Iraq anyway, so what's the big
deal?" However, "the big deal is that Bush will pack the court with radical
right-wingers, who may help overturn decisions like Roe v. Wade and
Lawrence v. Texas," and "it is likely that the U.S. will attempt to occupy Iran."
To sum up: "Shit."
As a comforting aside, Kevin Larocco reminded me that "no one has ever proved that rational thought is an evolutionary advantage."
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One of my kindergarteners, Robert, wanted something in my hand and when I wouldn't give it to him, he grabbed my wrist and scratched me. I told the Korean teacher she explained to him, in the most patient of tones, that he cannot scratch people. He told him to say "sorry," but he wouldn't. He did manage, after some coaxing, to come up with "Lao shi, dui bu qi," the Chinese for "I'm sorry, Teacher."