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Another day, another awkward conversation.
Me: Who am I teaching now? English majors?
Chinese teacher: No. The concentration camp students.
Me: Come again?
Her: These students here. In concentration camp.
Me: Concentration camp?
Her: Yes. The concentration camp students.
Despite 9 million dead, despite torture, abuse, and genocide that have occurred throughout history, Concentration Camp has prevailed over sound judgment and good taste as the name for the four-week intensive course for Freshmen Non-English Majors. The university requires that all students not only take English, but pass it each year, culminating in a in a huge test at the end of their undergraduate tenure, which will have serious job implications.
You might think English teachers play an important role. You might also think as a native-speaker I am highly valued.
It then follows that our program would have solid organization, a gameplan designed to give all of these students (at what is a second-tier university) an equal chance to take control of their lives.
It stumbles. And falls, and busts its nose. Torn cartilage, a broken bone, and let’s not forget the blood. There is plenty of that.
But before I get into the current set-up, I must finish talking about September and the intensive course for postgraduate students.
The four-week intensive course ends in a student performance in the English language. Theatrical performance is a very efficient tool for improving foreign language skills, and in here, the students performed multiple skits. Some classic fairy tales. Some invented stories that played on actual Chinese lore.
The students spent weeks and put in a lot of effort, all of which showed in the final product. Of the foreign teachers who taught them, three of us showed up, and everyone sat in an auditorium, refreshments provided.
Teachers were there. Past students, as well as the bureaucracy of our foreign affairs department. They sat there and watched, as I did, as everyone did, the Powerpoint slides introducing people to the performance.
One of the slides had a picture of the Disney character Pluto. Beside him, in great big capital letters: CONCENTRATION CAMP.
The administrators sat in the front row, waiting for the performance to begin. The Powerpoint slides disappeared at seven o’clock, and the two hosts welcomed us and the performance began.
Following retelling of American and Chinese fairy tales, the head of the program gave the audience peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Then they honored the Chinese and Foreign Teachers with roses. We stood there, none of us Jewish, for photos and roses, and did I mention photos? Each and every student wanted a photo with us. They genuinely liked us, and I have to say, the feeling is mutual.
The Friday morning prior, I had taught on my own for the first time. Or at least tried to. They gave me the wrong directions to a building on a campus I’d been to once. I missed the first two periods, but made it to the last two where I talked about myself, and that was it. Sophomore English majors, these students were nice. Talkative. Just wonderful all around.
Then I get an email. I have to switch to the afternoon classes.
I enter the room, introduce myself, and begin talking. No one responds. Fine. I start explaining various aspects of American society, pausing to ask them if they understand. No one responds. … Okay, fine. Let’s continue.
A girl pulls out her overpriced cell phone and begins talking. What are you doing?
She puts the phone away and glares at me. Boring!
A one-word critique. God-forbid they would speak a complete sentence. They are English majors after all. I later figured out it wasn’t so much my class that was the problem, it was their terrible level of English. They were petrified of doing much more than playing games.
When I got them talking, I wondered why the school allowed them to be English majors. You need some actual skill to go with that line on your resume, some substance, and this goes for any foreign language.
Aside from the English majors, my other teaching assignment was in another series of intensive courses, this one for freshman non-English majors. I should note that I knew none of this, save for class location, until I asked somebody. Apparently, keeping laowai in the loop is not the terms of the contract.
I show up that Monday morning and enter the classroom. Outside, they chatted loudly in Chinese, the harsh Wuhan accents rising supreme to all others. The moment I entered, they fell silent. They stared.
I said, “Hello. How are you doing today?”
One answered, “Sleeping!”
Oh…this is going to be great.
