Teaching English in China is difficult in more ways than one. My popularity with the preteen girl crowd waxed and waned this past term, much to my chagrin. In December I wrote about feeling uncomfortable with the touchy-feely Grade 5 girls. I thought I wouldn’t teach them this term. I was wrong.

Coming early to class, crowding me in the hall, hanging on my arm: Extremely uncomfortable. If I was in Grade 5 I’d be in heaven. Alas, I’m a long, long way from the fifth grade. I’m probably closer to fifth grade in my next life than I am in this one.

The touchy-feely crowd was strangely absent for most of June. After I cracked the whip and changed their seats, six of them from the same homeroom, remarkably, became ill. The air conditioner was blamed. With the H1N1 hysteria running through the school, they were sent home.

A few came back the next week. When they discovered they had to write the test they missed their fevers suddenly returned. Adios, muchachas. Six girls from the same class – all sick with the same illness? An illness that prevents them from attending only my class? Strange, indeed. Some might say it was a conspiracy… I didn’t shed a tear, it was one less thing to worry about.

Tuesday was the last day of classes, and four of the six returned for the party. It was business as usual teaching English in China. It was only one day. I used big arm movements to create a buffer zone when they weren’t busy scarfing down chips and chocolates.

The biggest offender, let’s call her PMHKG (Prematurely Mature Hong Kong Girl), wasn’t at the party.  She saw me the next afternoon as I left the campus. PMHKG charged and I hunched over in an attempt to ward off the incoming onslaught.

“Steve!” She called.

It was like a scene from a bad Korean Soap Opera (even the good ones are pretty bad). She hung on my arm as I eased towards the school gate. She looks about three years older than she is, standing a head taller than the other girls. She tried to explain her absence as we walked. A female teacher walked past and smiled. I cringed. It must have been a sight: Me with a preteen on my arm, her head on my shoulder. Ah, the live of a man teaching abroad.

I didn’t have time, the air conditioner repairman was due at my apartment. Trying to pull my arm free I discovered her grip was stronger than a bear trap. Gnawing off my arm would have taken too long and left an unsightly mess on the white tiles of the campus. With another pull I discovered the amazing lubricating qualities of perspiration. My addled mind formed a rudimentary plan. She tightened her grip, pouting.

Rice-fed Prematurely Mature Hong Kong Girls are strong. Because I sweat like a pig (and who doesn’t when it’s 110 degrees), with a mighty tug I was able to extricate myself from the crushing crush. A disappointed groan was uttered as I laughed and dashed for the gate.

My days as a big rock star are over. In his heyday David Cassidy had nothing on me. Now he’s on Broadway and I’ll be shooting photos professionally. Life is change.

I’ll miss PMHKG and her crew of touchy-feelys. As agonizing as our time together was I will remember them fondly.

Image: musicstack.com

Yay! It’s a long weekend in China. Monday is Qing Ming Jie, or, Tomb Sweeping Day. On this day people pay respect to their ancestors by cleaning tombs and making offerings of food, liquor, and ghost money. Qing Ming has been a holiday in Hong Kong, Macau and Taiwan for years. It wasn’t until 2008 that China made it a national holiday (it was celebrated before this, but not recognized).

My move went reasonably well. The movers decided to carry my desk upside-down, and it broke apart. The fight that ensued between the woman from my department overseeing the move and the movers, was interesting. She blamed them, they blamed the desk. In the end the school repairman put it back together with L brackets and chewing gum. After it was placed in my bedroom he told me to never move it. Great.

Given their lack of coordination, I didn’t allow the movers to touch my computers. I did that, making two trips, half-a-mile each, carrying a monitor and CPU each time. And I went to gym later in the day. Computers, like sheets and blankets, are much heavier than you would think. Buff, The Stevo will be buff!

I’m working on my laptop. Trying to wire three bedrooms for the internet is a perplexing problem. I don’t want wires running all over the apartment. Wireless will do for now. I see a large purchase of ethernet cable in my future…

I’m off to Hong Kong today. WordPress is holding one of their famous WordCamps in the former British colony. I’m meeting up with one of Shenzhen’s other expat bloggers, meeting WordPress president Matt Mullenweg, and hopefully getting some free stuff. Like I need more stuff, my life is now a collection of boxes full of stuff.

The photo above is of the Crystal Bridge in lovely Guilin, China. I’m somewhat limited, photo-wise, at the moment. I have no network and access to my images. I didn’t want to deprive those that come here for the photos, not my bad prose.

To one and all: Have a great weekend!

Stevo is crying

When I was a younger man I thought having your own office was the pinnacle of success. In China I attained this level of grandeur. I could shut the door and eliminate countless distractions.

Ya baby, livin’ large.

All good things come to an end. Like the rest of the world the economic crisis is being felt in China. My office and the teachers’ bullpen area are being downsized. Air conditioning is expensive, and the room is huge.

I never had my own office before. Well, I did, when I was self-employed. Having an office you pay for isn’t quite the same as earning one.

I never used the office. My pinnacle of success was a dusty repository of junk. My main desk is in the bullpen with the rest of the teachers. I was closer to the action (and far less elitist) hangin’ with the crew. From February to June 2008 I used the room a total of three days: For interviews, and writing HR memos, disciplinary notices, and assorted semi-confidential stuff.  Now it is gone.

Boo hoo, woe is me. My success and status, my personal worth and professional reputation are in tatters. I am a king without a throne, a dog without a bone, a cat without a squeaky toy mouse, corn chips without salsa, eggs without bacon, bread without butter, etc.

Wish me luck, as I  relinquish my unused fortress of solitude.

We all have doubts, those three-in-the-morning pangs that leave us wondering if we are doing the right thing with our lives. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Am I wasting my time? Is there something better?

I am not immune. I love my job, most of the time. Since stepping into management, my time in the classroom, those special joys and frustrations, has given way to budgets, battles, and politics. Save face, lose face, conspiratorial whispers, hard decisions, long hours, and dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Tangled in that web, it’s easy to forget why I’m here.

My students, the 500 primary school 学生 in my charge, celebrated Christmas on December 24. There was a party, with a skit performed by their international teachers, carols, a singing contest, and of course, gifts. I conceived of the concept, although a team carried it to term, and assisted with the delivery. Sometimes it takes a village to “birth a baby.”

I question my life, my career. Is there anyone that doesn’t? But not on Christmas Eve.

The last class of day: Grade 1 students left the large performance room after singing, dancing, and celebrating a holiday they know little about.  They queued before Santa (a 23-year-old, athletic American). He handed them a giant red stocking containing a pencil, a lollipop, and a class photo (most thought the stocking was a hat). I handed the gifts to Santa as he wished each student well.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Holidays.”

“Seasons Greetings.”

“Happy Hanukkah.”

The little girl looked the same as her classmates: An energetic three feet topped with dark hair and eyes, body enclosed in a blue-and-white school uniform.  Her excitement was evident as she neared the front of the line. Santa needed a moment to prepare the little girl’s gift. The stockings were stuck together and took a minute to separate.

She watched, eyes open wide, and danced from foot to foot with anticipation. The longer he took the higher her steps became. Her enthusiasm was palpable. Santa, finally, handed her the folded stocking.  Her face lit up in a supernova smile.

I smiled.

She was happy, that youthful innocent Christmas happiness from the days when Santa is real and the world is still a mystery. She rejoined her friends, laughing.

I have doubts from time to time. Christmas Eve  reconfirmed that I am in the right line of work. My concept, my plan, carried out by a team of amazing people, made one little girl utterly happy.

That’s worth the headaches and sleepless nights.

My school held an early New Year’s Party, Monday night. All the faculties presented a song and dance for the institution’s 600 assorted staff. Not the biggest crowd I’ve performed for. No, it wasn’t televised. After numerous TV appearances last year, it appears my star is waining. Go figure, just as I’m starting to look damn good.

There were gala costumes.

There were (almost) professionally choreographed dance numbers.

And, there were 8 English teachers from around the world, doing the Village People’s infamous classic, YMCA. Their costumes consisted of blue jeans, white T-Shirts, and sunglasses. (We received kudos from all and sundry on the “coolness” of the sunglasses.)

Sometimes it’s best not to take things too seriously.

Photos: The Stevo and S. Jiang

New here? Subscribe by RSS feed, or subscribe by email. Thanks for visiting!

s

The Stevo has several young girls following him around. This wasn’t the case when he was the same age as the girls. Back then, during the early 80s, having leprosy wouldn’t have made him any less popular.

Devlishly handsome, in a shirt straight from Queer as Folk.

Now, as I (yes, I’ll switch to first person) creep towards an age that when divided by four equals 10, I am an object of infatuation.  The class of Grade 5 was mine for more than two months. They are loud boisterous students, but I managed to channel that energy into something positive.  After a colleague was asked to “leave” the school, I had to shuffle the schedule, and the class with the affectionate girls was assigned to a new teacher. He’ll find his footing and I will be forgotten (he’s tall, muscular, and kind: I can’t compete).

That doesn’t help at the moment. Each night I walk past the classroom when the girls, always early, are lining up. I, for lack of a better world, am swarmed.

“Stevo!” they call, and climb on my back. “Steve!” they call, and drag me towards their classroom, their arms around me. It’s enough to make a man blush and cringe, while being full of a certain pathetic pride. It’s uncomfortable. Having 6-year-old hug you with gusto is one thing, a 10 year-old-girl is something else. I’ve come a long way towards being “touchy” but not that far.

There are only a few days left this term. After the month long break I’m sure my moment in the sun will have passed. Until then I will have to bear the fruits of my skill and charm, augmented by Grade 5 crushes. Why couldn’t this have happened when I was in Grade 5?

I’ll leave you with The Police, live, with a song that addresses this topic perfectly.
s