Adjusting Myself

About two years ago to the day, I sat in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah and listened to a speech by a Church leader that I knew I would remember for the rest of my life. Mostly because of how much it irritated me, but also because I knew deep within that I would eventually reach the end of my mission. I put down the pen with which I had been taking dutiful, copious notes, my brow furrowed with annoyance and deep thought. He said that you could always tell who had been a good missionary by how long it took that person to adjust to the “real world” upon his arrival home. The longer a returned missionary spends in that repulsive limbo of awkwardness and confusion and pretending to have lost the ability to speak his native language, the better his service. If he’s right, I must have spent the bulk of my missionary service lobbing Molotov cocktails into orphanages. In the deep recesses of my mind I knew no one really expected me to descend into a pit of social obliviousness the same way you don’t expect a normal, functioning adult to suddenly start dragging himself around on his hindquarters. “Oh Derek, we knew you wouldn’t change!” I usually consider this a compliment, but I also have to wonder if everyone means me well when they say it. After all, wasn’t I supposed to?

I made the acquaintance of three people on my three flights home, all of them naturally curious to one degree or another why an otherwise normal looking 22 year old was wearing business clothes and a nametag on a series of lengthy international flights. My seatmate on the flight from Tokyo to Atlanta was a 24 year old UNC student flying from Taiwan to Baltimore to visit her ailing father. Despite the melancholy nature of her trip, she was a fun, talkative girl who spoke her mind and used a lot of hand gestures. We got along very well. I have a habit of sizing people up and got the initial impression that this girl was not necessarily a fan of organized religion. The conversation turned from her to me, and why exactly I had spent two uninterrupted years in the rural Philippines. I told her the nature of my service, and the church that I had served. When prompted by her, I shared some of my core beliefs. She seemed mildly surprised that I was Mormon, and went on to tell a story about when she lived in the western United States and knew some Mormons who lived in a giant yellow farmhouse on several dozen acres of beautiful land. They were eventually contacted by a development company and asked if they were willing to sell the land. They agreed, a sprawling subdivision of McMansions was developed, and the Mormons got rich. “Then, get this,” she said, her tone indicating the Mormons were about to do something reprehensible or at least extremely odd, “there’s this whole valley of giant, beautiful houses, right? And they pay a buttload of money to have that big yellow farmhouse ripped off the foundation and moved right in the middle of the subdivision.” She then went on to describe “generations of people” and the “constant stream of children” that were in and around the house, always in homespun overalls or some other clothing reminiscent of burlap. Her story, while doubtlessly exaggerated, spoke to me. Up until our chance encounter 35,000 feet in the air, those were the only Mormons she had met in her entire life. And I knew the type. Unquestionably decent, kind people with good hearts and even better intentions, but the social awareness of creatures that spend most of their lives burrowed in the ground. And the exact kind of people that would have raised a son who, given the same circumstances, would have robotically extracted a pamphlet from a stack in his carry-on and given a seemingly pre-recorded synopsis of his beliefs, with no consideration to the background of the listener. It was the difference between 13 hours of hellish, palpable silence, and two people sharing jokes, snacks, and stories- one of those people just happening to be a Mormon who really wasn’t that weird after all.

But now, my tenure as a "soldier in God's Army" is over. I took off my name tag and burned my filthy clothes in a pile on a basketball court in the Philippines. I'm not "Elder Dixon" anymore, no matter who you ask. I'm just Derek again. As expected, I have some pretty mixed emotions about that. Almost everyone I know has asked me what it is like to be home. I know this happens to every missionary, and I think the answer most would give is “indescribable.” In an effort to be less cheesy, I usually say something like “weird.” But the concept and feeling is the same for just about all of us, even if it is for different reasons. Everyone is excited for something different, and everyone misses something different about missionary life. Some are excited to be in the arms of that elusive statistical anomaly- the girl who waited. Some excited by the prospect of furthering their education at whatever impressive university they’ve secured admission to. Anyone with a semblance of a soul is excited to see their families. It also depends on where a missionary has served, and where exactly “home” is. For me, it's a little different. While I served my mission, I was exotic. This has happened to me only once before, and it was, you guessed it, in China. The Philippines was definitely no exception. I'd wander the same roads every day, and people would constantly shout at me "What's your name?" "You're so handsome!!!" or at least "Amerikano!!!" I got used to it after two years (and let's be honest, much, much earlier than that) and was walking around like I was someone who actually mattered. I was even weird amongst my fellow whiteys, who with very few exceptions, hailed from the Mountain West. "What's it like?" they'd sometimes say, and I would recount tales of pulled pork sandwiches and humidity and black bears and people called "Mamaw and Papaw." When prompted, I would accurately recreate any number of Southern accents from Antebellum plantation owner to motor-mouthed hill person to a rendition of the typical accent from where I actually live. In turn they would have their own stories to tell- something called "skiing", stakes made up of subdivisions instead of states, and a seemingly endless supply of extreme outdoor activities often involving daring feats of speed and skill or at least fire and jumping off of things. What they also have is a network of thousands upon thousands of people who know what a mission is and have been on one themselves. A transition into post-mission life is more seamless in everything from school to dating. In most cases, people can pretty much pick up right where they left off. They meet cool people in the mission and find out that they only live 15 minutes away. I, on the other hand, am calculating time zones and just trying to keep track, knowing that unless I can get out to that magical place that only Mormons and extreme sports enthusiasts ever care to visit, I will never see any of these people again. 

I've been home about a month now, and have been shocked by the social transition. As previously mentioned, I really haven't changed, and I've noticed with that mixture of pride and shame that only Appalachians understand that the people I knew before I left haven't changed much either. So it's a huge surprise to me when I go to a good friend's engagement party and realize- "I don't know how to do this anymore..." Everyone is shockingly busy, in such sharp contrast to my stagnancy. I got wired instantly upon my return- got Facebook up and running, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, the whole nine yards, and then just as quickly realized I had no place there. My Facebook news feed is clogged with posts by girls who now have different last names, others put up ultrasounds, other people are taking shots at parties, some stand in front of the Capitol Building, where they just so happen to work now. What does a person who does absolutely nothing post on Instagram, when others put up their babies and significant others, or a stunning array of monuments they are visiting while in Paris? I guess I could snap an artsy pic of the frozen pizza I eat for lunch every day, or screenshots from the nonstop Breaking Bad marathon I have been on for the past 2 weeks or so. What do I Tweet about? "Listening to the same 5 Lorde songs over and over while I drive to work!!!!! #ROFL!!" So just about the only thing I do now is text the same tried and true friends pretty often. Without exception, they have better things to do. I often find I have interrupted a class, or work, or a party, or a pressing deadline. I am the pariah among them, always afraid to respond to their question of "what are you doing?" cause it's always significantly lamer than what they are doing. Their answer- "I'm making something of myself" and mine is that I'm not. I'm essentially in the exact same place that I was before I went to SVU- bored and confused with nothing on my agenda. But as a person, I couldn't be more different. I am not content with my 5 digit daily calorie consumption and mind-numbing TV marathons usually reserved for the catatonic or otherwise severely impaired. To put it bluntly, I have grown up. Regardless of where a mission is served or even how it is served, there is something to be said for the transition of a life in which everything is done with a specific purpose in mind, and whatever this is. So to answer the question of what I have done since being home, I give a sad half-smile and say- "I wrote this blog." 

A Tale of Two Summers

I have always seen myself as something of a winter person. I love cold weather, and I enjoy taking it easy with family and close friends during the holidays. Plus, the prospect of being presented with a pile of presents on Christmas morning really doesn't hurt anything either. I like hot cocoa in all its varieties, and I am proficient in both the ice rink and in a toboggan. My meticulously formed snowballs are the gold standard by which all others are judged. Yes, it would seem that winter is the season for me. Well, me and every other sentimental, unathletic, wannabe writer in the Western Hemisphere. However, this summer may just have been glorious enough to shift my seasonal loyalty. But it didn't start out that way.... Despite the irrefutable scientific evidence that consistently suggests summer begins in late June, I start to feel a shift usually around Memorial Day. The thermometer is consistently above 80 degrees, people start cooking out, and school is a distant memory. Around that particular time this summer, I was headed home from China about a month early for a tiny but surprisingly Earth-shattering foot injury. I was informed by my father at the Charlotte Airport that he fully intended to go to the beach, as Dixon family tradition dictates the last couple of weeks in May are reserved for some time on the South Carolina sand. I got clearance for the trip the following morning from my orthopedic surgeon, so long as I promised to stay off of sand, and avoid spending any amount of time in any sort of water. Like, for example, pools, hot tubs, and the Atlantic Ocean.... With these instructions, a surprisingly Iron Man-esque walking cast, and several spy novels to occupy my time, Dad and I headed directly from the medical complex to the beach, where the rest of my family was waiting. I misplaced my tanning lotion, finished my all my books in a little over a day, and spent the rest of my time in the condo- pale, introverted, and extremely fidgety. I passed the remaining days watching Spongebob Squarepants marathons, engaging in deep brooding, and restlessly gimping through the condo. I returned home feeling none of my typical affection for the beach. None whatsoever. Once I was back, it was time to begin the process of my mission paperwork. My mom had meticulously scheduled a series of doctor's appointments that would have taken most people months to complete. In less than two weeks, I had gotten a series of shots, had follow up visits for my foot injury, and was missing all four of my wisdom teeth. For those of you that don't know Mom, just picture that lady from the Blind Side. They are exactly the same. They both just run around being sassy and getting things done. Thus by Father's Day, I had every shred of necessary documentation and validation ready to be sent to Salt Lake. During this time and a few subsequent weeks, I was completely immobilized. My car collected spiderwebs in the driveway, and I eagerly anticipated each doctor's appointment days in advance as an excuse to get out of the house. I begged to accompany my mother on every single insignificant errand and trip to the grocery store. She soon became an expert at leaving the house in an extraordinarily ninja-like fashion, and the sound of my booming, uneven footfalls would send her running for the sanctuary of her minivan. Likewise, I unintentionally annoyed all my closest friends with a series of increasingly mundane medical updates. I may as well have been a withering, ancient shut-in. To top it all off, My cast was starting to smell like a German restaurant, and I was eventually forbidden to remove it when other people were in the vicinity. By the end of June, I was eagerly awaiting three things: the removal of my cast, the arrival of my mission call, and my trip to Delaware to see my good friend Andrew. This trip had somehow escalated from a long weekend reunion of sorts in DC to an eleven day, multi-state extravaganza. I was elated. On June 30th, the cast was removed. By July 4th, my summer had made a remarkable turn for the better. The legalization of the sale of fireworks within Kingsport City Limits resulted in an Independence Day to rival the 1776 original. Pyrotechnic smoke filled the skies for days before the 4th, and the show put on by the Dixon Family was the envy of Rotherwood Estates- receiving defeated applause from the neighbors who thought they could out-redneck us with their pitiful displays. When the last sparkler was extinguished, I had nothing but Delaware on my mind. I was packed and ready to go, but eventually got nervous. Andrew of course knew what to expect, but how would I be received by his family? What would they think of this hillbilly stranger who occupies the space of two humans, eats for three, and talks enough for at least ten? Fortunately my fears were quickly cast aside when Sister Jones picked me up at the Philadelphia Airport. We talked all the way to Wilmington, as two deceptively twin-like girls slept in the back seat. Upon arriving to their house, I adjusted to the family with ease, and was introduced to Brother Jones, Sarah, Mary, Catie, Davis, and the absent Spencer, as they all darted around the kitchen making sandwiches.  I got reacquainted with Elizabeth, Andrew's sister, who had provided us with an impeccable tour of Washington when we were all at SVU in the fall. We all then headed to Andrew's American Legion baseball game. When we got back, I was presented with any number of sleeping arrangements, each carefully devised with my comfort in mind. I popped right up the next morning, and helped everyone pack for our camping trip in Palmyra, NY. It was Davis' fourteenth birthday and we celebrated with some Rita's Water Ice. After paying for my Gelati, I turned to see all 8 Joneses laughing at me. I was confused. We have Rita's in Tennessee; certainly I hadn't made some embarrassing mistake ordering? No, my mistake was that I had paid for my own treat, in strict violation of Jones Family Policy. It was at the end of that night that I felt at home. The next day, we headed out. Our road trip was rife with shenanigans, and Andrew and I passed the time taking dashboard pictures and desperately scanning the rural Pennsylvania airwaves for rap stations. The campsite was great, despite the inability of two Eagle Scouts to put up a two man tent with color coded poles.. Elizabeth, Wilderness Domestic Extraordinaire, prepared our pre-pageant hot dogs. And then, just in time, we all piled in the van and headed to the Hill Cumorah Pageant. It was an amazing show and an incredibly spiritual experience. By the time the night was over, Andrew and I were eagerly anticipating Pageant Round Two the following night. We all swam in Cayuga Lake, and toured Church history sites in Palmyra. As soon as we had finished our tour of the Grandin Press, I got a phone call from my parents back in Tennessee. My mission call had arrived, just as Andrew predicted, on July 9th. I was warmly congratulated by the whole Jones family, and July 9th, 2011 will go down in my memory as one of my best days ever. We got back to Delaware Sunday night, and started planning the week I had left. I was flattered when Andrew allowed his usual noon wake up time to be repeatedly interrupted by all of our activities. I was shown around Wilmington- ("A Place to be Somebody,") Philadelphia, Old Newcastle, a botched Valley Ride, and every other nook and cranny of the Tri-State Area. And thanks to some careful planning, I got my summer beach trip after all when Andrew, Elizabeth, Sarah and I headed Downstate (..ahem... Lower Slower) to Cape Henlopen for the day. It was by far the nicest beach I have ever been to, no matter what Southern beach purists might claim to the contrary. The day was filled with sandcrabs, Blue Drank, and a bay/bird sanctuary with tricksy-temperature water and a good deal of foul smelling sand. By this time, Andrew had introduced me to Wawa, the legendary Tri-State convenience store. My stay in Delaware perfectly coincided with Hoagiefest, the month long celebration of Wawa's hoagie greatness. By the time I left, I had consumed several hoagies and no less than four gallons of Blue Drank, that sugary elixir of life that only Wawa has. Such was the power of this seemingly unimportant store that towards the end of my stay, I shouted at a sullen overweight man outside the car window as we passed, discerning from his paunchy, faded Wawa t-shirt that he may have in fact been Hoagieman himself. My desperate shouting out the window was the source of much amusement for the Joneses. Appropriately enough, my vacation also coincided with the midnight premiere of the final installment of the Harry Potter series. Elizabeth, Andrew, and I donned lightning bolt scars and headed for the theatre and our 12:04 showing. It was one of the last things we all did together, and it seemed to be an suitable way to wrap up the trip. It also served as the melodramatic nail in the coffin of my childhood. When the movie was over, all us Harry Potter nerds the world over were confident in the knowledge that there would be no more books and no more movies. It truly was the end. And this end just so happened to occur as all those same nerds are approaching the frightening independence of adulthood. It suddenly occurred to me that the remarkable summer I was now having may very well be the last of its kind. After my mission, it will be time to buckle down. I doubt my parents will buy me a plane ticket to Delaware to galavant around for eleven days. As much as my friends mean to me, we'll likely all be spread throughout the country, and visits will be infrequent. Not that I would have the time to take off work anyway. It's a sobering realization. A few days into the trip, Elizabeth remarked that I had transcended the status of "guest" in the Jones household. We were all just too familiar for such nonsense at that point. And I am not mawkish and naive enough to suggest that I became a "family member" in those eleven short days either. But I was certainly somewhere in between. I appreciated the hospitality of the whole family, and the good times we all had made the trip the indisputable high point of my summer. Needless to say, I spent the last couple of days trying to make all of it last. But all too soon, Andrew dropped me off at the airport, and before I knew it, I was home. My mission call was thrust into my hand, and a few hours later all my extended family gathered with baited breath to hear the news. I had cameras rolling, and the Joneses on speakerphone as I shook like an autumn leaf waiting to read my call. "Dear Elder Dixon... You have been assigned to serve in the Philippines Cauayan Mission." People clapped and cheered, and I floated through the rest of the evening.  I knew that it was an inspired call as soon as my eyes landed on the words. Now that I am back in Kingsport, at least for the next couple of months, I have gotten to reunite with Courtney and the rest of my hometown homies. I've been home less than a week, and we've had a great time together almost every day, going around town, harassing our alma mater band, and eating potstickers and drinking limited edition Mountain Dew. As much as I loved being in Delaware, being at home certainly has its charms too. I have nothing but time on my hands- time to spend with my family, time to see friends, and time to temporally and spiritually prepare for my mission. The good news is that there is still some summer left. Time to create even more memories. Because when we inevitably look back on this exciting part of life, no one says "I remember that winter when I got cozy by the fire with a mug of cocoa and some book. Alone." No, memories come from long summer days- days spent with friends and family watching TV marathons, having barbeques, shooting fireworks, singing along with the car radio with the windows rolled down.  And inevitably, everyone has that perfect summer that they won't shut up about to their posterity. For me, this is that summer of "remember when.."

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.

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.

A Post From The Wooden Bed

There is a light mist of toxic rain falling outside, and my plans for this Saturday have subsequently been...dampened. There will be no going into town, and the East Coast has succumbed to slumber. It's 4pm here, and there's not much to do but eat some Chinese Ramen and drink State Banquet Beverage Coconut Juice with my iTunes on shuffle. Kanye and Coldplay have done a lot to lighten my mood, and I feel like I might turn this whole day around before it's all said and done. I unfortunately missed the lunch portion of White Weekends, but my anticipation is already mounting for dinner. From Friday evening to Monday morning, our boarding school is devoid of Asians, and the cooks prepare our dishes accordingly. They dispense with the pig's blood soup and fish-with-all-the-bones, and bring out the ham-fried rice, dumplings, and fried chicken. This, of course, is glorious news. Teaching is over for the week too; even Chinese kids don't have school on Saturday. Cleaning my apartment is always a good idea. Daily life in China can dirty up a place pretty quickly. Couple that with my psychologically fascinating laziness, and it's quite a mess. It's just a hideous menagerie of pirated DVDs, H&M bags, and empty Coke cans. I've been pretty prolific lately about keeping in touch with my family and friends. Once I discovered I could text through email, the wifi room has been my second home. I love the technology, but I just hope my friends are as on board with it as I am. Derek Overload is a very real possibility. I came here to travel, and my payment for that opportunity is that I must teach. What's it like for me to teach groups of tiny Asian nuggets? Just as you think it would be: stressful, rewarding, and hilarious. Anyone who knows me well might be alarmed that I'm entrusted with anything, let alone a child. Certainly my legendary impatience, biting sarcasm, and occasional lapses in judgment would be the more negative points on my teaching resume. But anyone who knows me really well knows that I actually like little kids. They're like tiny sources of constant amusement with their crazy worldviews and adorable little faces. And until they reach a certain age, there's really not much they can do that bothers me. Most of the time. It's just really awesome to watch them learn and grow, and to know that they have so many great years ahead of them. As a teacher, I want to make their lives easier and more rewarding. I feel like learning English helps them do that. And if all goes to pot and they end up working at Tesco for the rest of their lives, at least there will be someone who can tell me where the incense is, instead of staring at me until I give up on trying to ask. My desire to help these kids is what gets me out of my terrible wooden bed every weekday. And believe it or not, it's really not all hard work. I'm the Kitchen teacher here for the next few weeks, which means I really just have to come up with things for these nuggets to eat. Every time I pour water into Jell-o or spread peanut butter for Ants On A Log and watch their faces light up and little brown eyes widen with amazement, it really does validate all my efforts. Most of my kids are so great and attentive, and the ones that aren't are easily disciplined. In fact, being a Kitchen teacher is nothing more than a constant exercise in bribery. "Be good or you don't get food!" It works literally every time. Thursday, though, was a ridiculous disaster. I had been sick the day before, and didn't get the chance to buy my supplies for the day's lesson. This meant that as the Kitchen teacher, I had no food. I don't feel like I need to explain to anyone that this lack of preparedness resulted in a colossal failure. I walked into my first class with my palms sweating and my eyes visibly displaying fear. Several of the kids had already voiced their anticipation earlier in the day about what they thought what was their upcoming meal. "Teacha Derek! Eat-a! Nood-ur-les! Jell-o!" I tried to walk away before any commitments were made on my behalf. I knew I had to come up with something to say to these children, and even more importantly, something to do. I wanted to walk in and tell just tell it like it is. "Teacher Derek was shaking with fever last night and could therefore not go into town to buy yogurt and apples for your fruit dip. So instead, he decided to come into class empty handed and is obviously screwed. Now, please allow me to get through this day without anyone falling out of one of my third story classroom windows. And more importantly, without Teacher Derek violating his ILP contract by grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you until you stop shouting in Chinese and hitting each other. Your cooperation and forgiveness are much appreciated." Unfortunately, their grasp of the English language does not enable them to understand hopeless pleading, so the monologue went more like this. "Today, we're going to play Musical Chairs. Do you know what that is?" Most of the kids were on board. I was patient with the ones that weren't; why pay attention to an unprepared teacher? I asked for song suggestions, as my laziness and fear had effectively jammed my brain's creative center. All of the kids began shouting "LADY GAGA" in unison. They were perplexed when I proceeded to roll with laughter. I was laughing so hard that I was afraid I might have to trot over to the squatter. I told them if we were going to do Lady Gaga, I would need a volunteer singer. Then I stood by and supervised as a half dozen Chinese children sang "Bad Romance" and walked in a circle, fighting over plastic chairs. It was a YouTube quality laugh riot. The next class didn't want to do musical chairs, so we played a game of structured, English-rich catch. This obviously devolved in about 4 seconds, and the class ended with a little boy named Caesar accidentally throwing the ball out of the window just as we were learning how to say "Don't throw the ball so high!" The other kids in the class ran to the windows, and I followed, frantically grabbing at them as they leaned out to see where the ball had gone. And poor Caesar, with all the blame- "Et tu, Teacha Derek?" I quickly lined them up for the next class and cast my eyes upward, thanking Government that the classes were only 25 minutes long. My final class proved to be the most difficult of all. My voice was hoarse from singing, and I was exhausted. Of course, this class contained my worst students. I ushered them in, flustered and spent. I attempted to line them up, and my eyes fell on one girl in particular, blathering away in animated Chinese to the girl standing next to her. "TINA! No Chinese!" It's Rule #1 of ILP. She continued her ceaseless drivel until I had to physically angle her chin skyward to my face. "Tina, no Chinese." She opened her mouth and laughed loudly in mockery, revealing her 8 tiny, rotten teeth. And thus started my lesson. "Okay class, we're going to play musical chairs." My response was a fart sound from one of the boys and another smattering of Chinese from that fool Tina. I instructed them in the rules, and asked them to pick a song. They all looked at me as if I had just asked them to recite the Pirate's Code backwards and continued their previous shenanigans. "How about '5 Little Ducks'?" It was a quick little rhyming song one of the good kids had taught me earlier in the day. I put the chairs in a circle and the kids began to trudge around, unimpressed. Then the boys started sitting in the chairs prematurely, determined not to lose. "No! You only sit down when Teacher Derek stops the song! FIVE LITTLE DUCKS WENT OUT TO PLAY, OVER..." My lesson was rapidly deteriorating into a terrible educational abyss. This was about the exact moment that my head teacher, Sam, walked in to evaluate me for the week. He came in as I was screaming "Five Little Ducks" at the top of my lungs, peppered here and there with "NO CHINESE!" I stuffed Tina into a chair with one hand as I grabbed King by the collar of his sweater with the other, my throat getting raw all the while. The kids were running and screaming, undeterred by Sam's presence. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he wrote what had to be the worst teacher evaluation in history on his clipboard. After his time was complete, he gave me a sympathetic chuckle and left the room. I knew the damage was done, and spent the last few minutes of class trying to keep the kids in some semblance of order, while also restraining myself from smacking their ridiculous little faces. When class was over, I opened the door and released my little hellions out into the world. I collapsed, feeling pretty ashamed. I knew it was the lowest point of my teaching so far. Fortunately, my week was over. I shrugged off my teacher's apron and took a minute to collect myself. Fortunately, when I was presented with my pitiful evaluation, Sam understood. He told me he knew I wasn't at my best, and that he would re-evaluate on Monday when all my foodstuffs were in line. I decided I needed a trip into town, where I bought a 6 Yuan McDouble and a few 5 Yuan DVDs and tried to end the day on a high note. Thankfully, most of my days aren't as pitted with setbacks and stumbling blocks- very few of my days are "Thursdays." People always get really corny when they teach- "the kids teach me," they say. And while I did learn a pretty catchy new nursery rhyme from one of the kids, I know that I never go in to class expecting to learn anything. I'm here to teach, I go to college to learn. Plus, I'm the one who knows all the Engrish already. I already know how to share, how to make Jell-o, how to play Red Rover. But as I crawl into my wooden bed each night, bathed in the subtle orange glow of my $4 heater, I realize I learned something every day too. The well-behaved children don't ever teach me anything; they just make my teaching experience worthwhile. It's Tina who teaches me patience, Roofio who teaches me that sometimes kids just act out because they aren't being challenged enough. And every day I can't help but reflect on those little inadvertent lessons. And while I'm pretty sure that teaching isn't in the career cards for me, these children are preparing me to be a better husband and father someday. These kids help me have fun and help me to see the good in everyone, even when it's really, really hard. They might have a whole other language to learn, and it just so happens to be the hardest one on Earth, but I'm the one who needs to grow.
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On a completely unrelated note, people have been asking me for pictures. Here I am, obliging.

                                          (some of ) The Nuggets

                                          Shanghai Skyline

                                          Changzhou Street

                                          Me and Kylee

                                           Behold, my toilet! That other drain by my shoes is for the shower. Yeah.

                                          My Apartment

                                          The Awesome Bullet Train!!!!

                                          The Sketchy Shanghai Street Market

                                          Shanghai Traffic

                                         Me, Jennifer and Carlie

                                          My wooden bed and little heater.