Ah, the Life of a Taiwanese Schoolgirl

On Friday nights I teach three two-hour blocks. I find it is crucial I spend the first 20 to 30 minutes of each period working the class - taking attendance, teasing the kids and bantering at their level of comprehension.

My professional justification for this would be it's time spent engaging them in English outside the textbooks. But really I just don't want them to completely hate me for my complicity in such a blatant act of pre-weekend torture. Plus, if we crack open the book right when the period starts, they start flirting with mutiny 90 minutes in: "Teeeeeeach-uuuuhr I hungry ... PLAY GAME! PLAY GAME!"

My 7 o'clock class was looking droopy-eyed the minute they walked in.

"Cheer up! Only two hours - then your weekend begins!"

"Noooooo no no no homework."

"But don't you get to go home after class?"

"No - have to stay here. Do homework."

I asked the girls in the front row what their weekday schedule was. I wrote it on the whiteboard as they dictated. Keep in mind, these are 10-year-olds. This is what they told me they do during the week:

7 a.m. Arrive at School
40-minute class
break
40-minute class
break
40-minute class
break
40-minute class
Lunch (30 minutes)
Nap Time (40 minutes)
40-minute class
break
40-minute class
Clean (they have to clean their 6th period classroom everyday)
3:50 Go Home
4:30 Go to Cram School
Do homework
Eat dinner at cram school
More homework
7-9 English Class
9:00 More homework
10:00 Go home

Ageh, it boggles the mind.

Letters to Leslie

I made my 12-year-old class write me letters using the new vocabulary they learned. Results were as follows (vocabulary words are underlined, spelling errors intact):

Dear Leslie,

We take turns to talk to the Chinese and you are angry. I'm sorry for you. I will fill up my apologize in a box for you.

That one was from Teresa. She's known to burp loudly in class and then give me a satisfied smile. She prefers that I call her "E.T." (like the movie). The other kids are always telling me what a brain she is. She's a fun kid. Her letter references the fact that two or three times per class I bark "NO CHINESE!" which makes them giggle.

Dear Leslie,

According to the teacher I can sleep. Can the kids take turns sleep? I fill up I bag with the book I am sleep in the class. Don't talk to me. I will sleep, when you take thie letter.

That's from the one boy in the class. Every class I have to threaten to take away his chair if he can't sit up with his eyes open. Not that I don't feel bad for him: The class is 4:30 to 6:30 on a Friday and he's been in school all day and all week.

Bless you fill up wallet with blenty of money.

An excerpt from Bella's letter. I'll accept that blessing.

Dear Leslie,

According to you said, where are you from, I know you live in America. We learn to take turns to play game. You fill up more happy. You wear yellow clothes in class.

From Annie. And it's true, I really like yellow.

Dear Leslien,

According to your letter say. You have runny nose. We go to look you, I friends and classment take turns to bring fruit and food and bring fill up the wather. but we go to you home in uniforms.

That's Michelle. She wont speak English in class unless I force her to.

Betty's letter included this lovely anime drawing of me.
I'd say it's a fairly accurate depiction, except I don't think I have a klingon forehead. And for the record, my boots are flat-soled and I didn't wear fishnets to class, I wore black tights.

Ivan the Budding Xenophobe

I can't lie, I have a few favorites, and 4-year-old Ivan is one of them. But on Friday he dashed any illusions I might have had that I am his favorite too:

During class, Ivan turned to one of the other students and said: "I don't like meiguoren."

Now, the truth is he probably didn't know how to say Americans in English. But the mischievous grin on his face told me he also thought I wouldn't understand him.

Me: WHAT?! How come? Why don't you like Americans? Why don't you like meiguoren?

Ivan: I don't like. I only like Taiwanese people.

Me: Why?

Ivan: Because Taiwan people is so cool.

Me: How come you don't like Americans?

Ivan: I don't like speak English.

Me: No?

Ivan: I only like speak Chinese.

Me: But WHY don't you like Americans?

Ivan: Because Americans is ... Gang-Gang!

All the other students laughed when he said this. I didn't know what "gang-gang" is, but thankfully one of the Chinese teachers walked in.

Me: Teacher, what is gang-gang? Ivan said he doesn't like Americans, that Americans are gang-gang

Teacher: Oh it's just a word they like, it was in a move last year, some movie you know at the museum one night-

Me: Night at the Museum?

Teacher: Yes, that one! Someone said gang-gang in the movie. And now they just like to say it.

When she said "gang-gang" my students burst into gales of laughter and "gang-gang"s. From the way they said it - and from what I remember of the movie - I deduced that the "gang-gang"er was the Easter Island head that harasses Ben Stiller throughout.

And that's what Ivan thinks of me and my countrymen.

Have it noted, this is the same kid who grabbed a lock of my hair a month ago and asked, "Teacher, why so ugly?" Of course, I did the sensible thing, grabbed some of his bangs and replied, "No, no, why so ugly?"

Mystery Solved

I knew much of my steely Alaskan indifference to cold weather wore off after four years in Los Angeles, but these last few weeks my wee Taiwanese students - most of whom have never left the subtropics - had me feeling like a complete foul-weather pansy.

"Teacher, I so hot!" They said frantically fanning their faces.

"Alright, you can turn the air conditioner on."

I waved the complaining student of the day toward the AC, and he or she proceeded to crank it on full blast.

It's about 16 degrees Celsius (60 F) outside. So, no, it's not Fairbanks in February - but it's not balmy either. Plus, the humidity makes it feel colder.

Once the AC is whirring, my classroom quickly reminds me of a Costco-style walk-in refrigerator. The only problem is I can't grab my crate of apples and run, I have to endure the rest of the hour.

I try to stay strong for the students, but often I finish my lesson plan with both hands tucked up my sleeves.

Do I have poor circulation? Am I being the world's biggest baby? What sort of strange, ultra-hot-blooded creatures are seated before me? I wondered.

But today I found my answer. It turned out to be a case of the layers.

I walked over to one of my 7-year-old students, Alan, who was wearing a bulky brown sweater with a polo shirt underneath. Once standing beside him, I noticed something poking out beneath the polo shirt.

"Wait a minute...." I asked. "How many layers do you have on?"

Without waiting for his consent, I hooked a finger around his collar and began counting. The kid was wearing four shirts. Gregory, seated beside him, was wearing three.

James surveyed his class on Friday. Two students had on three layers, and one had on six. Only one of his students was wearing just one shirt.

In short, the Chinese love to bundle. James underwent serious bundling, thanks to his grandma, in Cambodia. On the train in the morning, I see women wearing ankle-length coats that look like what my mom used to wear to work in the dead of Alaskan winter.

I'm just glad it's not me who's going all soft on cold weather. Now I know to blame the parents. :)

Christmas Itinerary

Wednesday, December 24th:

8 a.m. Get on bus, schlep together next week's lesson plan for after-class teacher meeting.

10 - 11:30 a.m. Teach preschool. Push Vancouver down very steep staircase, tell her to enjoy her Christmas Day off at Far Eastern Hospital, one short metro stop away from school

11:30 a.m. - 2 p.m. Teacher Meeting, Run errands in Taipei

4 p.m. - 5:30p.m. Christmas show final rehearsal

5:30 p.m - 6 p.m. Eat lunchbox dinner with bosses and brats

6p.m. - 6:30 p.m. Don tarty Christmas costume, apply black noses to reindeer children

6:30p.m. - 8 p.m. Host Christmas show

8 p.m. Go home. Drink hot chocolate with lots of Baileys. Watch A Christmas Story.

Thursday, December 25th

8 a.m. Get on bus

10 a.m. - 11:30 a.m. Work. Try not to be a grinch.

5 p.m. - 6 p.m. Work

6 p.m. Go to all-you-can-eat barbecue near apartment


Friday, December 26th

8 a.m. Sleep in!

1 p.m. Get on bus

2 p.m. - 4 p.m. Teach Satan's spawn, ages 8 and 9

4:30 p.m. - 6:30 p.m. Teach sullen tweenage girls + one teenage boy who thinks he's reeeeeally funny.

7 p.m. - 9 p.m. Teach well-behaved teenagers.


Saturday, December 27th

8 a.m. - 6 p.m. Who cares?

6 p.m. Go to Ruth's Chris Steakhouse in Taipei, James' treat. YES!

I get steak on Saturday, so that makes it all worth it. And unless I become a cop, a medical professional, a waitress, or a fireman - I will probably never have to work on Christmas again! I don't have a lot of concrete life plans at the moment, but I bet with a little forethought I can avoid all of those professions.

On the offhand I do wind up working another Christmas, it's highly unlikely wearing a furry red tube dress will ever again be part of the package.

Lost in Translation: PTA Meeting

I had my first PTA meeting for the kindergarten Friday. There was no delegating of tasks for the next school carnival, nor any robust debate on hosting a carwash versus a popcorn fundraiser. But I did have to demonstrate a lesson plan for the mommys and daddys, after which Supervisor invited parents to micromanage my classroom.

I didn't stress beforehand, but it was unnerving to deliver my usual shtick to four boisterous four-year-olds with a pack of scowling parents seated behind them. They weren't mean scowls, just studious grimaces - like they were trying to quantify how much knowledge I could impart to their children in 20 minutes, and whether that sum was sufficient.

After my teaching demonstration, the boys had to complete a series of simple logic games in ten minutes. Some of the parents videotaped. Most of the kids hustled along, but Ivan opted to spend the time chewing his fingers and growling. Occasionally he would drop a game piece on the floor and make an elaborate show of searching for it. He was the only student who didn't finish on time. His mommy and the Chinese teachers busted his chops afterward.

Then each boy "read" a picture book. In the past couple months, we've wasted hours having the boys practice reciting the story from a book. I think the school's idea is that if they make the kids recite well enough the parents will be tricked into believing their kids can read already.

Supervisor asked each parent what ideas they had for the school. Chris' father said Chris comes home singing English nursery rhymes that he doesn't know. He asked the school to send home a copy of the lyrics so he could correct Chris on the words.

Wow, I thought, what a contrast to my own kindergarten experience. And granted I was 6 when I was in kindergarten. Chris is 4 (he will have one more year of kindergarten before beginning primary school).

My kindergarten teacher was useless. Her background was in special ed, so she was used to one-on-one. She picked one favorite and worked with him all the time. The rest of us would've been left to our own devices were it not for a highly competent and overworked teacher's assistant.

My parents weren't pleased I had a worthless teacher, but they had every faith the Anchorage public school system would provide me a better teacher the following year.

Education was important in my home, for sure: I used to have nightmares for a week before the spelling bee; I had a boo-hoo meltdown in ninth grade when I thought I was going to get a B in jazz band.

But on this side of the ocean it's a whole different plate of tamales. It's a zero-sum game, survival of the smartest. My parent's attitude to a bad teacher was, "Oh well. It'll be better next year and if we need to we'll supplement at home for the time being." Over here it's, "I need 'The Ants Go Marching One by One' in writing so I can spot check my 4-year-old's grammar.'"

Crackpot Scheme #3,456,345 to get James a Job

James has another job interview tomorrow. We're hoping it will go well, but we've also decided hope is no longer enough. Elaborate ruses and deception are now in order.

The idea came to me a week ago.

"You should just tell your next interviewer you're Mexican." I suggested.

Most of James' interviewers have made it clear they don't want an Asian person as their foreign English teacher. It's easier to get a foreign teacher job here as a white-looking person who isn't a native English speaker than it is for an Asian-looking person who is a native English speaker. Thus, I figure the best thing James can do is convince everyone he isn't Asian.

James doesn't look Mexican at all. But there aren't very many Mexicans here, so maybe they'll buy it, I thought.

"Naw, I should say I'm Native Alaskan."

"OOOH GOOD IDEA!"

James doesn't look Native either, but it's marginally less of a stretch than Latino. Plus, Alaska is listed as his birthplace on his passport. So plausible enough, no?

Unfortunately Tienshing, his very Chinese middle name, is also printed on his passport.

"Just say it's your Native Alaskan name. Make up an alternate pronunciation. AND DON'T admit you speak Chinese."

James plans on applying all of the above tomorrow. Wish him luck, and I'll let you know if it works or not.

Preschool Hell

I was feeling a little low when I woke up today: It's Christmas season and I'm far away from home, and I've been sick for a week. I miss family and friends, American-style supermarkets and wide open spaces - to quote the Dixie Chicks.

Even stinky old Los Angeles has more open space than Taipei. This morning as I picked my way through an alley mined with dog shit, I thought about how I would be thrilled just to enjoy the openness of a Target parking lot for a couple minutes. Public green space is seriously scarce here. In these parts the "backyard" is, truly, a foreign concept.

I arrived at school thinking my dollface nubbins would pick up my spirits. As I prepared my classroom, I listened to them practice their Christmas play upstairs. They've been practicing every morning for about a month. I could hear them saying their lines interspersed with teachers' voices yowling "STAND PROPERLY" and "DON'T MOVE!" Pretty much an average morning.

Then my boss came downstairs.

"Ok Teacher Leslie, come along. We go to play. Bye bye!" She motioned to follow her down to the first floor. The other two teachers fell in step behind us. One of my students started to cry.

Me: What's going on?
Vancouver: They did really bad this morning with their play.
Boss: So I told them we are going to leave .... BYE BYE STUDENTS!

Ten pairs of big black eyes watched us from the top of the stairwell.

"NNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnOOOOOOOooooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooo" Someone wailed.

We got outside and shut the door. Vancouver, my boss, and the other Chinese teacher burst out laughing. Then my boss cracked the door open, there were at least two voices bawling. But that wasn't enough.

Boss: Students! I'm going to call the police. We're leaving! The police will come by later. Bye bye!

The crying got louder.

Vancouver (to me): Calling the police is the ultimate threat in Taiwan to students. I thought it was mean when I first started teaching, but now I do it all the time.

Most people, myself included, would think reducing an entire preschool to sobs would be a disaster. But where I work, I guess it's a ... character building exercise? A motivational experience? I was clearly the only adult present who didn't think it was an awesome idea. Not that I have any problem making little kids cry, my brothers can attest to that. But a whole school?

A couple minutes later we walked back upstairs. Two of my four students were wracked with sobs, snot trickling down their faces. My boss called two more students into her office (one of mine) and yelled at them in Chinese.

By 10:05 a.m. three of my four students were in tears, and the other sat in his chair staring ahead stonily. Wonderful.

Me: So! Who wants to sing Looby Loo?

(We usually sing first.)

They shook their heads solemnly.

Me: Okay well what would you like to do.

What I would've liked to do was hug them. They were pitiful. I wasn't upstairs to see, but they probably were being a little bad during play practice. But ... THEY'RE FOUR. And they're memorizing lines in a foreign language. And they have to remember their stage blocking. And they're supposed to be good. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. The expectations were never so high when I was four.

Ivan: I want draw a picture.
Me: Okay. We can draw pictures.

We drew tomatoes, carrots and celery. This week's unit is vegetables. That's 4.5 hours of English learning centered on veggies. Next week it gets worse: household chores. I don't believe whoever wrote this textbook was ever four years old.

A few minutes later Ivan wiped an impressive booger on the table and everyone giggled and pointed, so then things were pretty much back on an even keel.

But if I ever had any delusions about a future for myself in early Chinese education - and I didn't - they would've been dashed today.

Insufferable Gambling Wench Pt. 2: Desktop Wars

I wrote about her first here. She is my employer's sister and thus feels entitled to use the school's office computer for online gambling at her pleasure. This is the second in what I fear will be an ongoing series of altercations with her.

She walked in just as I finished printing test evaluations for my 4-year-olds.

Test Evaluations. 4-year-olds. Absurd, no? Don't blame me, I just work there.

Anyway, I'd just finished doing what I needed with the computer and was stapling everything together - still seated at the computer - when the haggard old queen walked in. She didn't look at me, didn't address me, didn't say anything. She just sat down across from me and swiped the keyboard out from beneath me.

It was a gesture of stunning rudeness. And I'm fairly sure it was intentional. I think she was attempting to flex her power over the desktop because I dared ask to use it for work while she gambled last week.

Alright, leatherface, it's on. I will gladly test your iron grip on this old, slow, almost-worthless piece of machinery.

She took the mouse and started to close out of the documents I was using. And just as swiftly I planted my thumbs and index fingers on the corners of the keyboard, looked her in the eye, and smiled.

"Could you please give me just one minute?"

She doesn't speak English, but my intentions were clear.

She jumped out of her seat and ran over to the phone. I saved everything I needed and closed all my documents. As I did this, she barked into the receiver in Chinese that I couldn't understand.

I think she lunged for the phone so she wouldn't have to stand around empty handed while I finished my business. By the tone of her voice it crossed my mind she could be tattling on me, but I think the chances of that are slim. The owner is absentee, he lives in Shanghai. What's she going to say? "I was trying to get my gambling done and your employee insisted on finishing her work before I commandeered the computer."

It took under a minute for me to save and close everything. I turned around and smiled, motioning to the computer.

"Okay. All yours."

She didn't smile back.

She's been on the computer every day, morning and afternoon, this week. Sometimes I walk by and catch her using the mouse with one hand and picking her nose with the other, quite the multitasker. Nose picking isn't as taboo here as it is the States. But it's mostly older people that do it. Nose picking and guanxi. She must believe in the old ways.

I understand and admire the importance family connections play here. But no family connection, no nothing should entitle someone to use business equipment for pleasure at the expense of employees (she doesn't work at the school, she only comes to gamble). All my coworkers walk on eggshells around her. I'm not going to.

Meet Ivan

I've seen all the boys in my all-male morning class reduced to big boo-hoo tears at least once. All my boys, but one.

Yes, everything is a really big deal when you're a little kid, but I'm sure the fact these boys all get to be the little prince at home has something to do with their outbursts. Getting to be first in line is huge, even if we're just going to the bathroom to wash hands. I threw a tantrum or two in my time, but not ever over getting first crack at the soap.

The non-crier is Ivan. He is also the non-smiler. I'm told he had a meltdown. Once. A year ago. It happened when the teacher tried to dress him up as a mouse for the Christmas play. He wasn't having it. Can you blame him? He wore his regular clothes for the performance.

I don't know who picked Ivan as his "English" name. To me, "Ivan" calls to mind a burly, Russian sailor, but the name suits him. He isn't a bully. But he has a stoic confidence about him that makes me think I'd want him in my corner of the sandbox.

Ivan's primary interests are ghosts and monsters. He reminds me of this at least twice a day.

Me: Okay students, can you say-

Ivan: What's this?

He points to my scarf, obviously disinterested in whatever I'm going to teach for the day.

Me: That's my scarf.

Ivan: Why scarf?

Me: Because it is cooooold (making the *brrr* motion).

Ivan: Oh. I like cold AND ghosts.

Or on another occasion....

Me: Today we are going to review office!

(Please, remember I neither wrote nor endorsed this textbook)

Ivan: Office have so many ghosts.

Me: Is that so? How many?

Ivan: One hundred ghosts.

Or a week earlier....

Me: Students, what animal do you like?

Ivan: I like monster!

Me: That's not an animal.

Ivan: Have monster at home.

Me: Really?

Ivan: In bedroom.

Me: Ooooooh! Did it BITE you?

Ivan: No, No ... I .... PSH, PSH, PSH, RRAAAAAAAH!

He pantomimes beating the tar out of a monster. Personally, I think he's telling the truth.

The Good, the Bad and the Guanxi

Who you know is important everywhere. From high school through college, my educators were always extolling the virtues of "networking," which sounded like something complicated that would require a spreadsheet. Eventually someone explained to me "networking" just meant keeping in touch with people - especially fancy people.

Here they call it guanxi. I doubt Chinese teachers spend nearly as much time harping on the "who you know" buzzword. No lessons required; it's a cultural given. Guanxi isn't something that might give you an edge in the world. When it comes to social interaction, guanxi is pretty much the whole enchilda.

Guanxi has worked great for me in some instances. It helped me find work. It also scored me a ticket to a fashion show at the Formosa Regent.

This billboard is at Zhongxiao Fuxing Station. I give it a little thumbs up when I change trains. The guy standing next to the flat screen is James' mom's best friend's brother. He is Taiwan's most famous stylist and he's a judge on Taiwan's version of American Idol. He is the reason I had the opportunity to salivate within arm's length of women swishing by in Dior and Cartier. I don't know him, but I like him.

However, guanxi has worked against me too. Take for instance this morning at school: There was a woman, maybe in her 60s, occupying the school office computer. I've seen her around. She never interacts with the kids, but she spends loads of time in front of the computer. Maye she's an administrator? I thought.

Today, after my class, I needed that computer to edit the test my students take Friday. I finished my rice bowl, drank some soup, but this woman was firmly planted in front of the computer. I didn't know what she was doing, but I could tell from the screen it wasn't work.

"Umm, excuse me," I said with my biggest, most wonderful smile. "Could I please use the computer for just two minutes? I need to type something for my students."

I knew she might not speak English, so I said this while motioning to my hand written notes and pointing to the computer.

There were several Chinese teachers in the room as well as the teacher from Vancouver. The old lady, looking incredulous, spouted off some Chinese to one of the teachers. Everyone - Chinese teachers, old lady, and the Canadian - looked at me like I just crapped a turtle.

Vancouver yanked me out to the library and explained my grave error.

The woman, she said, is the school owner's sister. She doesn't speak English. She comes in as she pleases to use the school computer for online gambling, and no one has the cojones to boot her off.

"I've waited days to type something up because of her." Vancouver said.

"That's bullshit."

"Yeah. I know."

"I'm not doing that."

I don't get paid for preparation time, and the test is saved on the office computer, so it wasn't something I could do at home. The old broad left as Vancouver and I finished our pow wow, so I got to edit my test and skedaddle.

Guanxi or no, I'll find a new job before I waste my afternoon waiting on anyone to wrap up Black Jack so I can prepare for class.

It Takes All Kinds

I've had rotten luck making friends here. Sure, there's the good folks at the Correspondents Club, but they're mostly older than me. And they have things like careers, and spouses, and savings accounts - all of which diminish our ability to relate.

I'm looking for other direction-lacking, twenty-somethings like myself. I thought I would find plenty of these teaching, but I teach at small schools without many foreign teachers. I'm sure there are oodles of nice, well-adjusted people teaching English all over Taiwan - but I haven't found them.

What I have found are a handful of other foreigners who I don't want to be friends with, but who I will gladly make fun of. They are, in no particular order, as follows:

The Overly-Loud American

A short guy with a lip stud that reminded me of Blink 182. He was eating lunch today at the same pizza joint as I was. And he was chatting with a tall blonde with a German accent.

"What did they make you do for a health check?" he asked her.

I couldn't hear her response, probably because she is a conscientious person who understands what a reasonable voice level is for a tiny restaurant.

"When I came I had to have the full deal, had to go see a doctor, he rubbed my back, and felt all up on my nuts. I had to take a TB test, they took blood, and they even wanted a stool sample. So I had to shit in a bowl."

To me, pizza is sacred. For years I ate it several times a week. My mom regularly worked 10- and 11-hour days when I was in high school. We had pizza Wednesdays, and we always ordered enough so I could eat it for breakfast through Friday, plus have a couple slices for afternoon snacks. Now I only get to eat it about once a month. When I'm having my pizza time, the last thing I want is to hear about is someone pinching a loaf into a piece of Tupperware . Thanks, asshole.

My health check for my Taiwan work visa only entailed a blood sample and a chest x-ray. There was no securing of the feces required.

The Smarmy Salesman

I have nothing against most salesmen, just this Australian one we met shortly after arriving. He was a few years older than us. He was in Taipei selling advertising for an insert in the Japan Times. The problem was he was telling people he was a journalist from the Japan Times, which was a lie. He was an ad salesman.

We met him a couple times because he wanted James to do translation on the phones for him. But he only wanted to pay in peanuts, and when James realized how duplicitous the whole deal was he told the guy no thanks.

We nixed him from our potential friend list. However, we did get significant mileage out of him as entertainment. On the bus, in the subway, at the dinner table, when there was nothing else to talk about we would have whole dialogues ribbing his deceitful pitch in our best Australian-accent impressions. This went on for several weeks:

Me: "This is DYE-no, I'm co-ling from th jaPAN Times. I wahnt to know if the chancellah received my fax."

James: "Yes. I'm a jah-nah-list from the jaPAN Times, may I please speak with his secretary? It's about an important intahview."

Me: "PLEASE put me threw to his secretary!"

I realize this isn't a credit to mine of James' sense of humor. It merely indicates how desperately we need to meet new people.

The Self-Righteous Gap-Yearist

A couple weeks ago we met another American guy, our age, who has been in Taiwan for a year and plans to spend one more year in-country. James and I chatted with him for 15 minutes, an interval of time in which Self-Righteous Gap-Yearist told us how he was right about everything.

On the subject of spending a whole year away from home:

Me: "I figure all my friends will be doing pretty much the same as they are now when I get back, only they'll be making a little bit more money than me."

S-R G-Y (accusingly): "Why would they make more money than you?"

Me: "Um, you know - because they'll have been working a whole more year."

S-R G-Y: So what you NEED to do is go home and parlay your time abroad into a higher pay-grade.

On the LSAT:

Me: "Yeah I took it but I canceled my score."

S-R G-Y (again, accusingly): "WHY would you do that?"

Me: "I didn't think I did very well. And everything I've read says schools only like to see one score."

S-R G-Y (with much triumph): "But they can see you canceled your score too."

I muttered a non-committal response to this. See, S-R G-Y was about to take the LSAT again (only he hadn't canceled his first score), so I can see where this was a point of sensitivity. However, everything I've ever read about law school says if you don't feel super-duper on test day, cancel your score (in which case you don't get to see it).

I'm not sure I'll ever retake it. More and more I'm thinking my crummy test day was God's special way of telling me I will never fill the shoes of Judge Mathis.

Then I asked S-R G-Y what he wanted to do once he gets back home. Ideally, he said, he wants to be secretary of state. At least he aims high. Hillary Clinton, stand back.

The Asianphile

It's not so much personal observation as platitude: A compelling reason foreign men come here is to date the Asian honeys. Don't believe me, see Stuff White People Like - the all-encompassing list of white folks' turn-ons.

However, the Asianphile I met was a Canadian lady. I met her in between interviews. The supervisor was making copies so we chatted for a couple minutes. It was mostly what you'd expect - how long have you been here, where do you live, etc.

But in two minutes' of mingling she made a point of letting me know:

Her: "I live with two Taiwanese."

Me: "Oh, Yeah."

Her: "Yeah. I don't really hang out with..."

White people. She didn't say it but what she meant was white people. I promptly crossed her off my potential friend list, because - uhh, you know - I'm white.

How am I supposed to respond to that? Offer congratulations? Right now I only hang out with Asians too, because I only know James' family - not because I've forsaken whitey.

Her: "Yeah a lot of the other people here ... they're in the bar until 4 a.m. All they do is drink..."

The golden takeaway from this not-very-interesting conversation was all my potential friends are waiting for me in the bar. At least I know where they are now.

I've done terrible things

Before I started elementary school, I went to day care. Not pre-school, no hoighty-toighty early education foolishness. I spent my first six years playing.

My parents were adamant: I had a whole lot of school ahead of me, there was no need to get started while I still needed naps.

I went to an amazing day care. The day care provider, never call her a babysitter, had turned her downstairs living space into a 4-year-old's Shangri-La. There was a Tyco kitchen set stocked with fake food, a little nook with big bean bags and walls of picture books. And the toys. There were so many toys.

In the winter we put on our snowsuits and rode tricycles in circles on her second-story deck. In the summer we packed into the minivan and sampled all the playgrounds she could find in the Anchorage area.

When my mom pulled into the driveway each morning, I would run, leap, skip, bound inside - because day care was super-duper fun.

Now I spend my mornings with little kids. But they don't play much. They learn.

I try to make it fun. We have games, we role play, we sing songs. But we still have to learn. We have to learn because every four weeks they get tested. And if they don't test well, I'm in it deep. And while I would really like them to have a fantastic time in my class, I would rather get paid.

The number of words and sentences they have to memorize each week is such that I simply must sit them down and teach for part of the class. We can't just play. I have to tell them to be still, quit wiggling - okay, what is the picture on this flashcard?

Sometimes I have to be stern with them. Why? Because they're doing what 4-year-olds do: They're twisting in their seats and muttering to themselves about choo choo trains, and ghosts, and other things much more interesting than Teacher Leslie.

This week I was given a new story book for them to learn. They'll be learning it until February, the supervisor said. Great, then I wont get started on it too early, I figured. That's a looooooong time to read "My New Pet is the Greatest."

This week at the teacher meeting she told me she was concerned about how little reading my class was doing.

So today I saved the last 15 minutes of class to read the book. When I was halfway through the story, the supervisor burst in.

"Teacher, teacher, if you read that much they can't memorize."

"Oh."

"And they have to memorize."

"Oh."

"If they don't memorize their parents will call."

In stead of finishing the story, we spent the remaining time memorizing the first few pages.

My kids are rid of me in the afternoon, but I know what they do then too: science. They're happy kids (mostly), but they aren't having near the fun that I did when I was their age. I wish I could write letters to their future selves: "Sorry I made you sit still and be good so much of the time. I was just doing a job."

My aunt sent me four, shiny-new Dr. Seuss books this week. I'm going to have to be creative, and maybe a little sneaky, in figuring out when I'll read them to my boys.

I always knew Asian and American education philosophy was vastly different. But it's been bewildering seeing that contrast illustrated before my eyes.

Needless to say, developed Asian countries are way, way ahead of the U.S. educationally in some ways. It's shameful how much money the U.S. has funneled into education, and yet American kids still score in the bottom rung of developed nations in math and science.

The only answer I've ever heard to this criticism is "but Americans value creativity and independent thought. Maybe we don't know multiplication, but we come up with fancy ideas!" And everyone knows fancy ideas are the building blocks of a robust economy.

I always knew this was somewhat true. But it seemed like a flimsy answer. Can't we be independent thinkers and learn math? Besides, there are creative people all over the world. Bring on the algebra!

I'd still like to see my countrymen learn to count, but I can't poo poo that creativity thing either. When you have kids spending their formative years memorizing select story books, filling up endless workbooks, and drilling flashcards - that takes a lot of time. Time that could be spent figuring out the world the way 4-year-olds do naturally. It's time that could be spent playing.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Back home the flag may drop the day after Thanksgiving, but here in Taiwan my Christmas season began last week.

Christmas is important, not because there are so many Christians in Taiwan, though there are plenty. Christmas is a choice time for bushibans, mine included, to show parents all the beautiful English their children are learning. There will be a few carols, some recitation - pretty much it's a huge marketing event to attract and retain students. That's why we've already started preparing.

There's a scene in A Christmas Story. The family goes to a Chinese restaurant on Christmas Day, and the waiters sing "Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly, fa ra ra ra raaaaaah." That's my classroom. Every day. For the next month and a half.

Today I got on YouTube looking for carols to teach one of my classes. It was surprisingly hard to find good versions kids could sing along with. Bruce Springsteen and Charlotte Church renditions wont cut it for the ten-year-old set.

I did find a version of The First Noel on YouTube with a Sims video-captured nativity sequence. Who does that?

I was searching for a version of "Do You Hear What I Hear," one of my favorites
when I found the real gem, this Christmas atrocity:

The hair! The stellar background! That green body suit! I felt a little bad about savaging this video after I read the information. Supposedly Richard Carpenter made it after his sister's death. So she wasn't around to defend herself, poor thing. But it was too amazing not to share.

The Last Supper

This is what James made me for election night dinner: a plate of delicious kimchee and ketchup fried riced topped with egg and green onion (and more ketchup). Yeah, ketchup fried rice sounds gross, but don't knock it 'til you've tried it. It makes for a nice salty-sweet comfort food, actually.

Observe how my plate is balanced on my knees while I sit in from of my computer staking out online news sites. Eventually James dragged me to the dinner table. The only news so far is some two-bit town in New Hampshire went Obama, anyways. My November 4 is coming to a close, while you fools back home - living 13 to 16 hours in the past - are just awakening and readying for that hallowed trip to the polls. Or not, if you live in a mail-in state like Oregon.

I'm mildly distraught that I have to go to sleep tonight and will miss a precious 8 hours of the news cycle. When I awake tomorrow it will be 6 p.m. on the East Coast. Then I have to go to work - the unfairness of it all - and when I get home it will be about 1 a.m. EST.

SO MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN THAT AMOUNT OF TIME! I can envision all the potential swing-state drama now. And rather than watch it unfold, I'll be drilling animal flashcards and cooing "Now show me your tiger face! Show me what an Eagle does!" to a room full of antsy little boys.

"Okay boys, Teacher Leslie is going to go sneak into the office to look at the computer for the last 45 minutes of class. Talk amongst yourselves ... in English!"

I am amused ...

...by how many people have looked me in the eye and lied to me recently. I have my work and visa situation figured out now, but it was an interesting road getting there.


I visited lots of schools when we got here. None of them, zero, zip, were completely above board. Everyone is doing something illegal. The severity and risk of the illegal shenanigans varied, but no one was squeaky clean. I don't really have a problem with that, because the laws concerned with teaching English in Taiwan seem heavy-handed. Then, I suppose 99% of foreign workers around the world probably say the same of their visa-providing country.



When I was looking for a job several times interviewers made a point of telling me, "We do everything legally here."



I always gave a nod and smile: I'm not going to correct anyone on the laws of their own country. But really, do I look dumb? Or is there supposed to be an unspoken understanding where I know, and they know, and they know I know that no, not everything will transpire to the letter of the law, but that there will be a work visa for me.



Because I've done my homework. And it's not legal for foreigners to teach kindergarten or pre-school, it's not legal to provide a work visa for someone working less than 14 hours a week, and it's not legal to begin working before the work visa is issued. But all of these things fell under the umbrella of "legal" according to my interviewers.



The candor of these conversations was inversely related to the English-speaking ability of the interviewer; the fluent English speakers were very slick. But my favorite was the school owner who basically said: "Well. We can get you work visa. But since we don't have enough hours for you to work, it will be ... not right or ... not real. Sometimes police will come check to see if you working when the visa say you are. If you are not here, maybe we tell them you sick or something. Ok?"



Uhhh...

No Jobs for James

James: I have another interview tomorrow.
Me: Yeah?
James: They asked me if I was ABC.
Me: Why?
James: Because I talked about having family here. I told him I was half, and then he asked me if I look white.
Me: What did you say?
James: I said I looked mixed.
Me: Well, that's a lie.
James: No it's not. I have too much body hair to look completely Asian.

Unfortunately, the interviewer probably wont inspect James' hairy toes to determine his inner Caucasian.

By now we should be used to the racism thing, but it still confuses and amuses me. First off, there are plenty of locals teaching English in this country, whites don't monopolize the English-teaching industry. And James speaks better English than all the local teachers I've met to date. So what gives?

The interviewers always give some line like, "Oh the parents like white teachers ... so we have to pay you less," which basically sounds like an unsophisticated ruse to trick ABC (American-born Chinese) guys into working for less money. Parents don't have any say in teacher pay. Or do they come in after work and go, "That one, he looks Asian. I hope my cram school fees are being spent in greater proportion on the white people you employ around here."

The strangest part today was the person who James spoke with on the phone was an ABC (or so he told James). "It's very difficult for us. We have to work harder, we get paid less..." Sure guy. Can we say Uncle Tom? Then ABC guy made James write him a cover letter to prove his English ability. I applied with ABC guy and didn't have to write any such letter.

The whole thing is either absurd or incredibly, coldly pragmatic: There's huge turnover in foreign teachers. Work visas cost schools money. And, most foreign teachers come with the barest qualifications: a college degree in any subject, native English speaking skills and, hopefully, a passing ability to deal with children. So if teachers are pretty much considered interchangeable (and they are), I guess, as a school owner, you may as well hook one that looks foreign too.

As I mentioned in this post, marketing and appearances are most important to the average cram school.

More on Culture

I was lucky enough to attend a few Chinese New Year dinners with the family of a friend back in Los Angeles. When I was in high school I saw James perform in a lion dance. I've been to Dim Sum a time or two back in the States. But living in Taiwan is a whole different plate of tamales than a day trip to Rowland Heights. Every day is a new chapter in my Chinese cultural education.

The thing that's impressed me most thus far is the way people stretch a dollar.

As a product of America where the average credit card owner owes Visa something like $6,000, I am in awe of Chinese thrift. If you make $10, save $3. That's the wisdom, sayeth James' mom. In America, saving is for chumps: If you make $10 spend it because maybe you'll be rich someday. Unfortunately, this culture extends to our system of government, and it's no wonder China owns half America's debt.

Examples of thrift are everywhere. No one wastes much on external building appearances unless it's in downtown Taipei. I'm always picking my away around rows of motorcycles parked on the sidewalk to get into shops in Nankan.

Funny English is so ubiquitous that it lost its funniness. I can't blame my grocer for selling "self handmade sausages" when I'm one of just a few native English speakers who will shop there in a week. But it's odd that Taipei 101, a monument built as testament to Taiwan's international prominence, would have ungrammatical reader boards like "The World Fastest Elevator." Taipei is lousy with native English speakers. Shouldn't someone have shelled out for a copy editor with full mastery of English mechanics?

The most amazing thing though has been the penny pinching that goes on at both schools I teach at. They both use textbooks that are flimsy paperback things that look like they should cost about $7. Neither school ever has any extras though, or enough teacher guides to accompany each book.

At one school if the owner can't find the teacher's guide I need, he just throws teacher guides for different books at me. At the other school the owner simply doesn't have a teacher's guide for the unit I'm teaching. Nor can I have my own copy of the accompanying workbook the students use. That means every classtime I have to snag a kid's workbook so I can copy the day's homework for myself.

Yesterday I was hovering over the printer about to make a couple copies. That's two pages. The owner trotted over to save me from myself:

"See you can do double sided," he said. He proceeded to tap the screen, which is all in Chinese so it's not like I'm going to remember what he's doing, and voilà, he handed me a lovely double-sided piece of paper. Thank you kindly cram school owner, God forbid I use two pieces of copy paper.

James and I bought our own whiteboard markers, because the school's hardly work. And though they hardly work, people are assigned whiteboard markers at this school - a wonderful solution to the marker embezzlement problem, I'm sure.

All my college internships were at newspapers, one of America's most embattled industries. My first internship paid me only in beer. My last newspaper shaved two weeks off the initial 12 they offered due to budget. Two newsrooms I worked at did away with the communal coffeepot. Times are tight. Despite all this, every office had a well-stocked supply closet. Duh, right? There's always enough pens, pencils, sticky notes, paper to get the job done.

Not so in the cram school classroom. No paper, no pens, no markers, no crayons, no rulers, no kiddie scissors. Them kids best be learning with whatever they brought from home.

When I wanted to take a copy of the textbook home, I had to sign it out. I asked to take home the cd that goes with the book. The reaction I got from the owner was what I'd expect had I asked to take home a piece of the school's furniture.

The owner's assistant pressed her fingers around the jewel case and gave me a look like, "We hired you because we thought you could divine the course material. This is going to be a problem."

Eventually she gave me the cd, but I had to sign for it too. Alas, all my plans to sell English textbooks for 9-year-olds on the black market must be postponed. Nor will I be able to accumulate a library of "English is Fun!" picture books for personal enjoyment. Pretty much, if you're thinking about teaching English in Taiwan, don't do it for the sweet kickbacks.

Think of the Children

I taught yesterday. Pretty much, I'm a bad teacher. It might have gone better had I been sent home with the right teacher's guide. But the theory here is students will absorb English simply by staring at my wonderful white face for a couple hours a week.

I had some time before my class started so I went to chill in the teacher office that's connected to the preschool my cram school also runs. While I waited, a woman came in and handed me an 18-month-old. I bounced him on my hip and said "cute" in Chinese. She agreed. Then she threw a pair of clean pants over the kid's head and made the international sign for "change him."

Okay. I'm overpaid anyway, I figured, I can add baby changing to my repertoire.

Class started at 4:30. At 4:31 I found out I read the wrong teacher's guide, thanks to some vigorous head shaking on the part of my students.

All my students have English names they go by in class. This is great because there isn't any way I'm going to memorize a dozen Chinese names. I still have trouble distinguishing between "bus stop" and "shower," between "soup" and "pain." Don't ask me to do names.

Most of them have names suited for Midwest farm kids - Susan, Richard, Hank. A few got stuck with stumpers like "Racky," "Cavey" and, the kicker, "Lawn."

After I ran out of impromptu lesson material, which took about five minutes, I resorted to playing twenty questions with my darling pupils. For every new round one girl consistently asked, "Is it a black man?" Unfortunately for her "it" was Harry Potter, Mario and the Taiwan girl rock band "She," but it never was a black man. Maybe next time.

Then I asked them to each say why they are learning English. Some mentioned business. A couple said parents.

"What about school? Would anyone like to go to school, to a university, in America?" I ask. Me thinking: Aren't all Asian kids genetically programmed to send an application to Ivies when they hit 17?

"English text books easy." one girl replied. What I think she was saying is she's becoming fluent in English - an incredibly hard language to learn well - so she can go to easier school. For a split second I felt defensive. Like, hey, I didn't think school was so easy. Then I remembered I was never a 12-year-old girl stuck in class at 8 p.m. on a Friday night mastering the past perfect verb tense in a foreign language. What the hell do I know about school?

After some hangman, a bit of reading and a partner activity - it was time to go home.

Not sure how I'm going to keep this teacher ruse up for months on end.

How to Explain the Difference between Liberal Arts and Arts 'n Crafts

The interviewer points to the spot on my resume where it says I have a "Bachelor of Arts in Print Journalism."

"So, you like arts."

"Umm...yeah. I guess so. Sure, I like arts. But that's not what that means."

"What?"

"Bachelor of Arts, that's just, well, in the United States you can get a Bachelor of Arts or a Bachelor of Science, it just means I studied things like literature, history..."

"But so you like the arts? Because we used to have class where we teach the student paints or how to draw and English same time. But it's hard to find teacher can teach the arts and the English."

"Yes. I would love to do that."

"Good. Okay. I hope you like Taiwan and will stay."