All Toe Up

A few days ago, I woke up just the same way that I do every day- the same way that most people without alarm clocks wake up- I had to go to the bathroom. Bleary eyed, I climbed out of my wooden bed and headed for the squatter. In my frenzied stumblings across the short length of my apartment, I hit my toe on the corner of my wardrobe. Holding back a torrent or swear words, I looked down at my foot, expecting to see some awesome gore. Nothing. Sure, my toe hurt, but so does every other stubbed toe. I hopped back in bed , watched a little television, and that was that. End of story. Definitely not blog worthy. Maybe not even Tweet worthy. Except unbeknownst to me, my story was far from over. I noticed that the pain in my foot wasn't going away, and on closer inspection, my toe was swollen like a Vienna sausage. Not only was there swelling, but it was pointing outward, like my foot was making the Clingon sign. This is obviously an anomaly. I assumed I had a broken toe. I sort of limped over to the wi-fi room, read an article about exploding Chinese watermelons, talked to my friends and parents, and mentioned my toe in passing, knowing that there was nothing that could be done for the tiny appendage beyond a little tape and some patience. Nevertheless, a visit to the hospital was suggested in the hopes that I could pick up some painkillers and have an x-ray done. I went about my business the rest of the day, teaching my nuggets English by way of crab soccer and whatnot. By the time I was ready to go to the hospital, my limp had turned into a full blown gimp. I was in high spirits throughout the visit, especially when I got my x-ray back. You see, most people assumed I was being melodramatic in my hobblings and a few questioned me outright. "Why are you walking like that?" "Oh, I broke my toe. It hurts pretty bad." ".......Are you sure..?" "Yeah, it's this one right here." "What, that one with the lump?" "No." "The one that's curled under the other ones?" "No. The fourth one, 'roast beef'." "Oh. Well I'm sure it will be fine." As you probably gathered from the conversation, I have some really ugly toes. But this thin sheet of translucent plastic proved that I am not in fact a giant sissy. Not only was there a break, but it was in the top of my foot, which is way more hard core than some lousy toe break. And it was a doozie. A crevasse, really. I was elated. If only I knew what that fracture would do to me over the course of the next 24 hours. The doctor tried to set my bone back in place (without painkillers, mind you) to no avail. Then he started pushing for surgery. The time I had spent in the hospital up to that point led me to believe that I would not want to go under the knife there. People were wandering the halls with open wounds, and I was not required to wear a radiation vest when I had my x-rays. I passed, and had the translators explain that I wanted a cast instead. I sat in the cast room for the better part of an hour, mosquitoes buzzing around my head, waiting for the temporary cast to dry and my crutches to arrive. I was in for a surprise when in lieu of crutches, I was put on a stretcher. Apparently, there have only ever been two tall people that have ever set foot in China. Me and good ol Yao Ming. There wasn't a set of crutches in my size. The stretcher was a little awkward, since I had only broken a bone in my foot, not stepped on a land mine. But I allowed myself to be wheeled to the taxi. I went back, Skyped my parents, and told them the doctor was pushing for surgery. An Skype appointment was set up with an orthopedic surgeon back home, and after taking a look at my x-rays, it was decided that surgery was indeed the best option. Except here's the clencher- it needed to be done within two weeks. And not in China. The news was overwhelming to me. It meant I would have to come home about five weeks earlier than anticipated. In fact, the wheels were set in motion for me to leave the country within 48 hours. On a much smaller scale, it was like being told I only had a certain amount of time left to live. And it was indeed the end of the life I had created for myself in China. I realized I had taught my younger group of kids for the last time the day before. Future travel plans that seemed set in stone evaporated in an instant. I suddenly had so much to accomplish in the space of a few short days. And all at once, a sea of regret washed over me. What hadn't I done? What pictures hadn't I taken, thinking I'd be able to do it later? Why didn't I eat that scorpion? What unremarkable lesson had I just taught my kids? And in that same instant, I realized that everything I would do for the next couple of days, no matter how insignificant, I would do for the last time. I was almost too shocked to do anything. I told all the teachers, they were equally shocked, but I explained that as much as I would like to stay, there was nothing that could be done. Thursday, I got up and tried to have the most normal day I possibly could. I went to a meeting, where events that I would never participate in were planned in detail. I got dressed, and I went over to teach my older kids. They all oohed and ahhed over my cast, as is to be expected, and I led my class down the hall. "Teacha! Today is letters?" "No, I think we will play soccer today." The kids started nudging each other excitedly. I told them all to come sit down, and explained in limited English that I had to see a special doctor in America, and that I would not be an ILP teacher anymore. The nuggets were stunned. I heard a few sniffles from Blake, who is incidentally my favorite child in the older group. He was soon sobbing violently and quietly. The other children stared at him and followed suit. The kids decided to make cards for me instead of playing soccer, and I was touched. I tried to look away from the sobbing Blake, and the children as a whole. One of the others looked up. Evan. Ever the class clown, I was pretty surprised at what came out of his mouth next: "Teacha, what is 'love'?" I'll admit it; I bawled. All of the cards have a crying face, me in an airplane, and a thoughtful phrase in the English that I taught them. The prospect of leaving was getting waaaaay harder to swallow. With the help of a Chinese teacher, I found all of my younger kids in my regular classes and said goodbye to them, explaining my situation with the help of Hillary, the foreign coordinator. I left her with all of my contact information, and told her to pass it on to the teachers and kids. Once they understood what was going on, there was a lot of crying from them as well. A few rummaged through their desks and pulled out goodbye presents for me- a purple pen, a chocolate wafer, a plastic ladybug. That night, I went to a farewell dinner that the other teachers threw for me. I knew that I would probably be seeing most of them for the last time as well. Friday was spent mostly in the "denial" stage of grief. I packed slowly and lazily, even though I knew I was to fly home within the next two days. I made sure to say a nice goodbye to my kids when I taught them for the final time, but I half expected to see them again on Monday. I went back up to my apartment and watched some TV, like I wasn't leaving forever. I went to bed a little late that night, hearing last that I was to leave sometime on Sunday. My room looked like I had shoved a bunch of clothes into a blender and left the lid off, but I figured I had time to worry about that later. I was awoken at about 4 am with a series of light knocks on my door, and was told by Sam that I was leaving at 8 am. In four hours. Upon receiving this news, I blearily stumbled back towards my bed (careful not to hit my foot on anything this time) and crawled back under the covers. Fortunately, I was instilled with some sense of urgency a few minutes later, and realized that if I wanted to take anything home with me, I would first need to pack it. 8 am rolled around all too quickly, and I got a fistful of fireworks and my luggage and gimped towards the waiting car. I met the other teachers in the parking lot as they were about to leave for Suzhou for the weekend, and we said our final goodbyes. I handed them the fireworks, they exploded, and I left. I had a nice ride to Shanghai with the school driver and her 16 year old son, who spoke a little English. They were friendly and incredibly helpful, babying my foot a little too much. Arrangements were made at the Korean Air counter for me to have wheelchair service for the entirety of my trip. I tried to explain to them that I was hobbling like a pro by that point, but there is just no convincing a Chinese person. Let me tell you that while it is impossibly awkward and guilt inducing, traveling in a wheelchair is awesome. I didn't have to know anything about my gates, where to pick up my luggage or anything. I can't say I was able to live with the sympathetic stares and the frantic gasping of the 14 pound Chinese woman pushing me through the airport, but the help was very much appreciated. I was definitely looking forward to my Korean air flights, and knew what to expect this time around. That the food is good, the stewardesses are hot, and there is a plethora of free movies I could watch on the 13 hour flight to Atlanta. When the connecting flight took off from Shanghai, I was overwhelmed. I left China with promises to return, knowing all along that it was a miracle that I was able to go even once. Unless another such miracle occurs, I doubt I will ever be back. Because of my "condition," I had to wear a sticker, and there was a wheelchair waiting for me when my plane landed in Atlanta. At the very end of the flight, a young woman had a psycho-suicidal episode and had to be ushered off the plane by a massive group of guards who had the misfortune of being called to help her. Unfortunately for me, the wheelchair area was also apparently a catchall for crazy people. As my assistant and I waited with the other "passengers in need of special care," we were subjected to her pitch perfect horror film screams about how she was going to kill herself and everyone else, her desire for a lethal injection sometime in the near future, and that her pants were "turning into bugs." It was the longest wait for an elevator in my entire life. As soon as the door closed, the sassy woman wheeling me around gave her diagnosis- "Shew that girl has got some demons up in her! Let's get you out of here. What'd you do to that foot, baby?" It was great to be home. I chatted up all the various attendants who helped me through the massive Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, and to my surprise, my English came back nicely. One woman who wheeled me around started talking about the Korean passengers and their "fish and tea, fish and tea. These people sure do love they fish and tea." I laughed until I cried, because she was more spot on than she could ever know. I had a great time (and laugh-related ab workout) with her as we waited for my "luggages" at the carousel. I was whisked through customs without delay and made it to the metal detector, where the ancient Jamaican woman in the wheelchair in front of me tried to take off her shirt. It was unpleasant for all concerned. As I was waiting for my final flight to Charlotte, the pilot saw my foot and she was quick to take note of the ridiculous cast- plaster in back, gauze in front. I told her that's what I got for going to a Chinese hospital, and we had a good laugh. When the woman at the boarding counter saw my foot, she upgraded me to a bulkhead seat. She said she was "gonna be my mama" since I wasn't traveling with anyone. People, I really cannot explain to you how nice it is to be back in the South. When I got on the plane, I heard the pilot talking about me. "That's the one I was telling you about- the guy who broke his foot in China!" She upgraded me yet again, this time to first class.  Even though it was mostly unnecessary, I was enormously grateful for the outpouring of kindess shown to me throughout the trip. After my long day of flying, I met my Dad at the baggage claim in Charlotte. And here I am. Three months and 13 days later- one month and 5 days too soon, blogging from my hotel room in Charlotte. It's only 6:30, but I have been up since 4. My body is still in China. And I think my heart is too. I have had a lot of time to reflect. Obviously, living in a foreign country and doing volunteer work with kids is a life changing experience. I can't express how annoyingly cliche that is, but it's also 100% true. I'm simply not the same person that I was when I left. I had the unprecedented opportunity to travel. Although I have always hoped to be able to do things like walk on the Great Wall, I never expected it to happen. I was exposed to a completely different culture. That's not something that a lot of small town boys from Tennessee get to do. My life has been filled with a lot of huge events, and living in China was by far the biggest. That's why it amazes me how simply it began and ended. It began when my Dad saw a flyer for ILP China at Southern Virginia in October. It ended Wednesday morning on my way to the bathroom in an apartment 10,000 miles away from where I grew up. I haven't had a lot of time to process the huge change that was just thrust upon me by a large fracture in a tiny bone. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit angry, and of course incredibly sad to go. But I've realized that even if I finished up my term, it wouldn't be any easier to leave. I'd still have crying children, and I would still miss so much about China. More than anything, I know I must be home early for a reason. And with all the amazing experiences in my life so far, I can honestly say I can't wait to see what that reason might be.

Derek Make the Most Good Post of Honor

In my egocentric brain, all my great readers are wondering one thing. Where has Derek gone? Why has he not blogged? For those of you that thought I had maybe given up, shame on you. The fact that I crack easily under any sort of physical or academic pressure definitely does not translate to the things that require no effort, like talking about myself on the internet. Like it or not, I am going to be around for a very very long time. But the question remains: what could I have possibly been doing for almost two months? Well, I have traveled extensively throughout China, but I always had internet and free time in the hostel. So there goes that excuse. I teach every day, but really for about 4 hours total, so that is also void. Has my life become some bland pit of ho-hum mediocrity from which there is no escape? No, I am 19. I still have plenty of time to be unfulfilled. And so far, my life is brilliant. I continue to have adventures; my nuggets are a constant source of amusement. I have stood on the Great Wall of China. I rode Vespas through the South China countryside. I beheld Chairman Mao's petrified dead body inside an eerily Snow White-esque tomb. In other words, I have no shortage of writing material, and an equal amount of free time. My only problem is that I have forgotten how to speak English. I have great adventures and endless shenanigans, but I now lack the ability to convey my antics to the public in either written or vocal form. My once impressive vocabulary (there, I said it) has rotted into a series of monosyllabic Chinese twinged phrases. I think the best way to describe my new "language" would be something along the lines of "Asian-Fusion." And I definitely do not mean that in a good way. Unlike an Asian-Fusion restaurant, my vocabulary has an alarming lack of pretension. My sarcasm has been whittled to a mere nub of its former glory. I think my downward spiral can be attributed largely to the following sources. First, the "baby talk" phenomenon expressed by stay at home moms and elementary school teachers. I teach young children for whom English is a very tentative second language. I cannot unleash a diatribe of adult vocabulary on children who don't understand abstract concepts. So I now essentially have the vocabulary of a young Chinese child. Oh, except I don't speak Chinese. The second reason I can no longer speak is because pretty much no one speaks any English. Obviously. So instead of carrying on intelligent conversations with adults, I am usually reduced to waving my arms and grunting approval or disapproval. However, a complete lack of English is much better than Engrish, at least for me. My "colleagues" and I met a group of "English-speaking" university students in Changzhou a couple of months ago. Before I came to China, I spent time daydreaming about having Chinese friends. They could tell me all the cool places to go, and I could use them as eavesdropping tools on the bus. I could have a pen pal and someone to teach me marital arts and help me barter with a ferocity that only Asians possess. In reality, making friends with a Chinese person is a lot like being stuck in a foreign language textbook. "Would you like to go to the discotheque?" "How do you spend your time on the weekends?" "What would you like to be called?" The other people in my group don't seem to mind too much. The same cannot be said for me. A conversation with these people is like two old people sitting next to each other with ear trumpets, shouting "WHAT? WHAT?" over and over again. I can only ask a person to repeat himself so many times before I completely lose interest in whatever he is trying to say. The only other English I get in China is an embarrassing hodgepodge of awkwardly strung phrases on billboards and subway stations. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for whatever I can get. These advertisers and city officials have gotten their point across well enough, but the poor choice of words has really wreaked havoc on my linguistic ability. For example, there is a giant 15'x30' billboard in our city advertising a housing development that says the following: "COURTYARD THERE ARE THREE PIECES TOGETHER. THE SUN IS 15 METRES." Well, okay.. Is this neighborhood really only 45 feet from the Sun? When purchasing ice cream one day I had the usual options (vanilla, chocolate), the freaky disgusting Asian ones made out of beans and tea and whatnot, and then one that was listed as "A riot of colour." I think you can guess which one I bought. These signs and linguistic mishaps are all over the place. It never ends. Here are some of the best: "Rare Honour Opened The Garden House Works." I bet it did. "Hot Is The Sole Criterion For Testing The Quality." "Pays attention to the stair carefully to tumble." "General Danger."  "To protect it, that's your virtue." I could go on for quite some time, but I feel at this point that you have a general idea of the severity of the language problem. I have spoken English my entire life, and I could never even begin to form sentences as ridiculous as those. My vernacular is now peppered with some inexplicable phrases: "number one most good," "game over," "very beautiful," "cheaper for you." I hope to dispose of these, but they have been hammered into my subconscious repeatedly, and I fear there is no escape. I have reverted to a few modes when I do speak English. I have my bumbling invalid mode (it's my failsafe), my Asian stereotype mode, and charades/silence. I use the stereotype mode only when threatening my children to be good. I regularly inform them that they must do well in the end of year performance in order to bring honor to their families. Bad behavior usually results in me speaking of concepts like bad luck and shame. I hate myself for doing it, but they usually get the idea. When speaking to my children, I try to use the number one most good English that I have left. I am, after all, the only source of good ol Amurrican English they can expect to receive. But trust me, it gets many more difficult for all the days.