The Mei Gua Ren in Nugget Land

So far, my posts here in China have been a little.... Derek-centered. But people, what did you expect? That I would waste my creativity and precious keystrokes telling tales of lesser beings than myself? You know me better than that. By now you know that I am a celebrity-esque object of interest in the People's Republic, that I am the proud owner of an awesomely austere bicycle, and that I have had some difficulty adjusting to my living conditions after my bourgeois fairytale of a life back home in America. I suspect no one is surprised. "Yes, Derek, we knew you were spoiled, even by American standards, and that your excess would be your downfall in a Communist country. We also know that you will always have a hard time blending in, no matter where you go. Your delusions of grandeur repulse us at every turn, and we are less than shocked that this false celebrity has gone straight to your rather large head." Believe it or not, I am not immune to or oblivious of my own ridiculousness. I hope that gives you some comfort. After a brief blogoshpere sabbatical, that I hope you were able to gracefully endure, I am back. And I have turned over quite a few new leaves. So in this post, I won't give you incessant drivel about my goings on. Like the fact that I bought fabric softener for my smelly cardboard clothes. Or that I got a water cooler for my apartment and it leaked freon everywhere. Even, ironically enough, into my purified water. (So that's why it only cost $7...) Or even that I have lost 25 pounds simply by refusing to eat subpar, revolting food. (I call it "The China Diet.") For once, I have decided to think of the children. And yes, I do mean the children that I teach. I have come a long way from the beginning of my trip to China, where I haphazardly presented lessons to my children with trembling hands. Like dogs, children can smell fear. And they tore in to me viciously. I subsequently spent my days wishing there was sufficient yarn and Elmer's glue to fashion a noose. And I blamed my children. It was these "Little Emperors", ruining my well thought out lesson plans with their tomfoolery and bratty ways. And then I took a look at myself. It was very possible, after all, that a person with no prior teaching experience nor any of the attributes of a good teacher was at fault. To top it all off, my classroom was basically a monument to filth. You see, its previous tenant decided to basically never clean anything, ever. And through a combination of petty indignance, outright laziness, and lack of time, I left it that way. I didn't think it was that big of a deal to sweep in a country where people defecate in the streets and stray dogs wander through supermarkets. But every day the children would aimlessly pat the floor, looking for a broken crayon or a pile of dust, any forgotten treasure that would serve as a delightful distraction. "Teacha Teacha, gimme look-a! What's this?" "Look, I really have no idea, but put it down. Can you not see that I am trying to teach you all about the subtle nuances of the letter F?!" My teaching style doesn't help either. ILP asks us to "put on a show" for these kids, so that they don't get bored and thereby decide to forsake the English language forever. Fine. They want a show, they came to the wrong person. My interpretation was that I should show these kids a good time after the manner of "Mad Money." You know, that show where a full-grown, obviously degenerate man uses shouting and sound effects to show people what stocks to buy. (Trust me, people, take your liquid assets to Merrill Lynch, specifically Tom Dixon, and you will not be treated so boorishly.) My translation of this lunatic's escapades into the realm of elementary education involved me tearing pieces of paper to confetti and tossing them violently into the air to make my various points. The children would stare in amazement. Surely they had never seen someone so tall and so old be such an idiot. Once the paper was tossed, it was quickly forgotten. Soon, however, these little piles became more noticeable, and children who had never lifted a finger to do anything in their lives started to silently pick it up and hand it to me. "Teacha...." they'd say, lacking the linguistic ability to express their true feelings. "Teacha, look. This has gotten out of hand. We're worried about you. This sort of mess is not acceptable in this or any other country." It was like kids begging their parents to quit smoking. I looked at the dejected, subtly disappointed looks on their tiny faces and it was all the intervention I needed. Never again. Anyone who knows me very, very well knows that all my truly good qualities come in sparse but incredibly powerful spurts. And cleaning is no exception. When I'm in the mood to clean, don't be shocked to find me sitting Indian-style on the floor in my underwear at 3 in the morning with a scrubber in one hand and some bleach in the other. I wallow in my own filth, eating Jell-O in bed and hopping from bare spot to bare spot on my floor through a sea of clothes. Until my cleaning switch goes off. Next thing you know, I'm scraping tile grout with Soft-Scrub and a razorblade. Hopefully I will even out somewhat, but for the time being, it's just how I roll. As soon as I was in one of my voracious cleaning moods, I knew there wouldn't be much time left. So I immediately set out to do right by these poor nuggets, and provide them with an environment suitable for their education. I swept, mopped, dropped a jar of honey, and mopped again. Finally, it was clean. But I didn't stop there. I needed to make reparations for these kids, and show them I was in this for the long haul. So I cut a cityscape out of construction paper and put it in my windows. I made basketball floor markers for the children to stand on. I cut out tiny paper pizza slices, numbered them, and put them on the chairs so the kids would have a certain spot in which to sit. To my delight, these hardened little nuggets responded swimmingly. Their behavior improved as my teaching style matured, and my hovel of a classroom was sterilized and decorated. Now I just want to stuff their faces full of candy; they are so good. Well, sometimes. But hey, they're children, right? My only concern now is that I definitely have my favorites. Cut and dry, blatantly obvious favorites. And I sneak them extra candy every day. And not the cheap Chinese crap I give to everyone else, no. I'm talking about delicious candy from my own personal stockpile, sent by well wishers from the Land of the Free and the Home of the High Fructose Corn Syrup. I feel like other teachers, real teachers with degrees and whatnot, have their favorites too- kids that make the stressful days worthwhile. Fortunately, my number one nuggets are smart enough to keep the candy a secret, lest I be exposed as the hatemongering selectivist that I truly am. My fellow teachers scorn me regularly; "That's terrible! Shouldn't you give candy to all of the children?!" First of all, worry about your own life. And secondly... No. I'll make you a deal. If the other kids have the same perfect English, perfect behavior, and perfect pint-sized sass of my star pupils, I might slide them a gummy bear or two someday. And as much as I enjoy my favorites, I still like all the rest. Here in Changzhou the kids always greet us with a pleasant "Hello Teacha," no matter where we are or what they are doing. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the most adorable jolt in the arm I have ever experienced, every time they do it. Unfortunately, I recently learned that these greetings were forced. I passed a group of children on the way back to my apartment one night, and was met with silence. I didn't care at all. If after 12 hours of classes, these kids didn't feel like enthusiastically shouting a greeting at every White person in their field of vision, I would understand why. The teacher escorting them apparently had a different opinion. "JUPOKF GFDHJPDR DSNGAO 'HELLO TEACHA!!!!!'" She said this as she began smacking the children in her immediate vicinity until a few very weak "hello teachas" came from the crowd. I hung my head in shame, gave a brisk, sympathetic wave and inaudible "hello," and walked away. As sad as that is for those poor nuggets, I soon developed a certain reputation with the children and was quickly on a whole new level. The other teachers watch with confusion and amusement as kids climb up my back in the hallway after class, shoot me with pretend guns, and demand to ride on my shoulders or be hoisted in the air like tiny Stanley Cups. I always oblige. My classroom decor pales in comparison to the other teachers, and I sometimes unfortunately fall short with a lesson or two. But when it comes to winning approval, I am unmatched. I no longer receive the obligatory "Hello Teacha." Now it is "Hello Teacha Derek." These greetings are accompanied with high fives, fist bumps, and hugs. And much to my comfort, they are 100% voluntary. In my classroom, I have learned how be simultaneously professional and kind, that almost mystical quality that all of my own favorite teachers possessed. I try to relate to the kids on their own level, and it comes pretty easily to me. Probably because I am still so childlike in some ways. And I don't mean the good ways like innocence, meekness, and kindness. I'm talking more along the lines of petty, loud, insane, and thirsty for attention. Somehow it translates well in the classroom. I promise it's not all fun and games though, (that being the most cliche phrase I could come up with) I am here to make sure that these kids learn English. Or for Heaven's sake, at least Engrish. Teaching these awesome kids makes my time here so much more rewarding. These kids give me an escape from the drama and catty hatefulness of my fellow teachers. I get to provide these children with a valuable skill and make sure they have fun too. I'm going on vacation later tonight to Guilin, the most beautiful place in all of China. The only thing I am worried about is missing my kids. Who will they shout "Hello Teacha" to in my absence? Who will give them candy and some of them, secret extra candy? Whose else's giant shoulders could they possibly ride on? When they outstretch their tiny, filthy hands for a high five, they will be met with thin air and disappointment, at least for the next eight days, until I triumphantly return. I don't think I could have ever forseen a future in which I would give a second thought to my work in the stead of my own personal happiness and goals. It's just not a very "Derek" thing to do. But Teacha Derek? That is a different story entirely.

The Invention of the Wheels

This story, like so many others in my life, begins in a Wal-Mart. But this Wal-Mart wasn't the one I'm so fond of back home in Tennessee- where ne'er do well county kids get high in the parking lot and I'm bound to run into at least 4 ladies from church, no. This Wal-Mart is in the "Business Zone" of downtown Changzhou. I remember the first time I saw it- a bright blue beacon of Western entrepreneurship in the bustling district I like to call "White Plaza." I know that if I ever get lost, I need only go to Nian Dai Xue bus stop and I will be sure to find my group. If they aren't in McDonald's, try H&M. No luck there? Check Dairy Queen. Starbucks is right up the escalator. If someone has some serious Yuan to blow, check Cartier, right across the street. And if all else fails, Wal-Mart is the ticket. There you have it, White Plaza. But on this particular night, I wasn't downtown to get a McDouble, or drop some RMB on a Swedish shirt. I was in the Bicycle Hunting business. On a previous trip to Wal-Mart, I had noticed that right past the "Washes The Thing" section (How 'bout that Engrish, eh?) was a long row of bicycles. After several minutes of cajoling by my colleagues and the successful ATMization of my American Express, I found myself in the market for a shiny new bike. I was not willing to spend more than $50 USD. I felt this was the perfect amount of money. The price was high enough to assure that the bicycle would support my hearty, fried bologna-fed American body without collapsing, but low enough that I could justify bequeathing the bicycle to the Chinese upon my departure. When I found the bike that was just right for me, I requested a test drive from the salesman. You see, buying a bicycle in China is a little like buying a car in the United States (I assume). While many people have actual cars, a lot of people use mopeds, and even more use bicycles as their sole means of conveyance. So, in essence, I was buying a White Trash car. I wanted to make sure the frame was lightweight, for curb hopping and other such commuting shenanigans, and that the seat could support my unusual height and girth. This bike satisfied all my requirements, and I wheeled my purchase toward the checkout. At 380 Yuan, it was right at my budget of $50 USD. I was feeling pretty smart. Until some EngLish speaking Chinese people saved me from possible idiocy with an Ancient Chinese Secret. They pulled me aside, explaining that bikes from the supermarket were overpriced and prone to collapse. After the hushed and strangely urgent conversation, I wheeled the bike into the stationery aisle and went on my merry way. Just like purchasing a car, I felt I should probably sleep on it. And that's exactly what I did. The next morning, I woke up, watched some pirated Seinfeld, and hit the streets with my friend Sam. We had made the mutual pledge not to return to the school until we had found a bicycle, and the smoggy air was full of hope. We walked for quite some time until coming to the Bank of China. This money lending machine is usually a surefire bastion of the English language, and this particular visit upheld that reputation. After a combination of broken Chinese, broken Engrish, and a whole lot of charades, a uniformed guard personally escorted us down the block to a bicycle shop. (Ah, it's good to be American.) The guard stood by the door, lit a cigarette, and prepared himself for an hour of Clueless White Dudes Attempting to Purchase a Bicycle. The shopkeeper was much less excited by the arrival of us moneyed foreigners as I thought he would be, but we perused the shop nonetheless. He had quite a few unassembled bikes, and he was building one for some locals while we browsed. I did my part, pointing and grunting at my various choices, and Sam helped with his Chinese. I refused the man's attempt to sell me a bike obviously designed for women (no crossbar, covered with flowers) and instead picked a couple on my own. I found one plausible option, a nice navy blue framed kit, nothing flashy. I gestured to this model and was informed that this was essentially "The People's Bike." As a product of post-Cold War America, I knew that "People's" meant shoddy quality. I also knew that People's=Commoner's. And I might be an unpaid teacher living in a 12x15 studio apartment who eats food out of tin bowls and sleeps on a wooden bed, but I am NOT a commoner. The salesman quickly offered some more opulent models. I was shown a teal bicycle, assured it was good quality, and eventually purchased it. I hated the color, but decided to settle. Sam was checking out a funky Asian bike, one that was low to the ground with a funky, curved frame. As Sam was investigating the other model, the tiny Asian salesman descended the stairs with an unassembled black frame. I was moderately irate. I had already paid for my bike, and here he was, waving this black beauty in my face?! Not ok. I felt like an idiot. The teal bike was maybe fine for a little jaunt around St. Bart's, or something along those lines, but my bike was to be used in the gritty streets of Changzhou. This is a town with smog so thick and dangerous that breathing the air has the same effect on a person's lungs as 2 packs of cigarettes per day. Not making that up. I obviously needed something a little more austere. And this beastly black bicycle was just that. I began to gesture frantically to the salesman, expressing my newfound distaste for the teal bike and my hopeless love for the black one. He took the hint. Laughing openly at my ridiculous, urgent charades and American indecisiveness, he began to assemble the black one for me, right in my face. It's like going to the Mercedes-Benz factory in Germany and watching them build your custom S500. It was awesome. I could almost see Chairman Mao nodding in approval. This bike was solid black, fender to fender. The paint job made all the difference. Why ride a preposterous teal jellybean when I could have something so much more professional, austere, and undeniably Communist? On the crossbar was a simple inscription in white- "Classic Bicycle." I envisioned my self proudly peddling through the Forbidden City, a poster child for workingmen everywhere. If the other bike was for the People, this was the bike of a Party member. I was honestly shocked that I didn't receive a complimentary carton of The People's Cigarettes with my new ride. It was minimalist, solid, and understated. In other words, everything I am not. I think that's why I love it so much. Once he was finished, I mounted the bicycle, pretentiously checking the tire pressure and brakes. Finding them both adequate, I charaded my approval and appreciation. I gave a cautionary ring of my bell as I left the store, and Sam and I morphed into the notoriously hectic Chinese traffic. The 15 minute cycle home was doubtlessly the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. Never before have I almost died so many times. Within the first few minutes, I was confronted with a cluster of taxis making an illegal left hand turn, a city bus driving on the wrong side of the double yellow line, and some shenanigans with a fruit cart. I loved it. My proclivity for white-knuckled reckless driving has found its home here in Asia. Now I get a lot of stares here in this Glorious Nation. But picture this: a loud, 6'5" White kid with red Wayfarers, going to town on a vanilla ice cream cone from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now put that same ridiculous foreigner astride a bicycle, and the attention reaches Kardashian levels. Can't say I'm hatin' it. I spent the rest of the day peddling through euphoria. That night, Sam sent me on an errand to the grocery store for some Oreos and whatnot. I peddled proudly down the street  to the store. Once I was there, I locked my bike up with the hundreds of others and strode on into the store with my all my swagga. Once inside, I was deciding whether or not it was a good decision to buy a 2.5 liter bottle of Sprite when a group of girls came up and started talking to me. "Excuse me, but I see you are maybe having the troubles? Maybe you want that I can be of assist to you?" After telling the girl that her English was good (THE highest honor for these people, trust me) I explained that I was just pricing some Sprite. The talkative girl proceeded to tell me that I was handsome and "powerful, like Superman." (Single White Males of the Universe in need of an ego boost, go to China. Trust me.) I laughed, sufficiently embarrassed. I then pointed out that I was the proud owner of a brand new bicycle. "She's parked right out front. The black one." And the line worked. China is the only nation I know of where a grown(ish) man can use a bicycle with a basket and bell as a pick up line. Great honor and prosperity for me, I suppose. But I guess that's China for you. And it seems that the more I try to wedge myself into this topsy-turvy nation, the more I love it. For now, look for the giant foreigner- the one with the ceaselessly ringing bell- doing a surprisingly good job blending into the sea of Asian cyclists. And loving every minute of it.