by Mark Salzman
In the room sat an almost equal number of Chinese, mostly Foreign Affairs representatives, some local government bureaucrats and translators from the institutions with foreign expert programs. Watching them, I could understand why they do not appreciate the Westerner’s irritation with long, boring meetings. The Chinese have, by necessity, increased their endurance manyfold by making listening optional. During meetings they talk with one another, doze, get up to stretch or walk around, and in general do not pretend to pay attention. This does not seem to offend the speaker, who, in general, does not pretend to be interested in what he or she is saying.
A Chinese man sitting next to me had been dozing quite freely since the first hour of the speech. He opened his eyes during the third hour to reach for his teacup, and noticed me looking at him. He had extremely thick glasses, a bloated face and a few beads of sweat on his forehead that he wiped at with a dirty handkerchief. He stared at me with no expression on his face for a long time, then suddenly asked me what I thought of the meeting. I said I thought it was very boring, too long and repetitious. His face did not change at all and he continued to stare at me. “That is because you are listening,” he said, and went back to sleep.
I happened to see this man again on several occasions, and each time talked with him at greater length. Though extremely shy at first, he eventually loosened up and spoke freely about his interests and ambitions. In time I found him to be a very warm person, and despite his stiff, expressionless manner, he had a sense of humor as well. No matter how funny something was, however, he always told or heard it with that deadpan face, wiping at his forehead and staring at me from behind his colossal lenses.
Some time later he came to my house to talk about a project that he wanted help with. He translated Western novels into Chinese in his spare time and hoped one day to publish. The problem was that, like most Chinese, he had no access to recent works—meaning nearly everything published since 1930. He wondered if I could lend him some contemporary American novels that might be suitable for translation. I said that he could borrow as many as he liked from my bookcase, and that if he had anything specific in mind, I would try to get it for him. He didn’t seem to have anything specific in mind, so I let him take a few books at random and asked that he return them by the end of the year.
To my surprise he returned a few weeks later, having read all of them. He put them carefully back into the bookcase, exactly where they had been before, and stared at me. “How did you like them?” I asked. Without blinking he replied, “Thank you very much, but I’m afraid these books would be unsuitable for publication in China. They contain scenes and language that would be considered decadent, or even pornographic.” I said that I was sorry to hear that, and tried to think of books I had that might be more suitable. I chose a few short story collections and told him to read through them. “Even though these aren’t novels, they are examples of recent American literature, and since this is a high school English textbook, I doubt they contain much pornography.” He thanked me again and left.
A month or so later he returned, and once again put the books very carefully back into the bookcase. He wiped his forehead and apologized for keeping the books so long. “I’m afraid that these stories are also unsuitable for publication in China. They have heroes who represent pessimism, alienation and individualism, all of which, as you know, are considered detrimental to the cause of Socialism. Do you have anything else?” I had to admit, with some irritation, that I could think of no books in my possession that would be considered beneficial to the cause of Socialism. “I understand,” he said, and began to leave. Passing by the bookshelf he noticed a large book that had not been there before. It was The World According to Garp. He asked what it was about, and I laughed and said he should read it and find out. He took it down, put it in his bag and said he would.
Several months passed. One day I found him sitting stiffly on a chair in my room; Old Sheep had seen him waiting and put him in my room while I taught class. After saying hello he took the book from his bag and apologized for keeping it so long. “It contained many words not found in most dictionaries,” he said, “and was long to begin with.” I asked him what he thought of it, noticing that he was not putting it back in the bookcase as he usually did. He looked at it, seemed to think for a few moments, then stared at me. “This book,” he began, “is very, very unsuitable.” He paused, then went on. “In fact, in my whole life, I have never read or even imagined something so unsuitable.” Here he stopped, still staring at me. He held the book up slightly and pointed at it with his chin. “May I keep it?”
Most of my teaching hours the second year were spent with a group known as the 1983 English Medical Class. This group of first-year medical students, ranging in age from seventeen to twenty, were chosen from among hundreds of talented freshmen for their superior performance on a series of English tests. They were to spend their entire first year studying English, then the remainder of their medical education was to be taught in English by doctors and teachers in our college who could speak it. Although medical schools all over China were offering rudimentary English classes to their students, our college was one of the few to set up a comprehensive English-language medical course. Controversy surrounded this program; on the one hand, the current “Open Door” policy promoted learning from the West, but on the other hand, conducting science classes in English implied that China could not really modernize on its own, with only cosmetic assistance from Western technology. Furthermore, most members of the faculty and administration of our college with the foresight to support this program had had that foresight before official policy supported it, and had been criticized or punished for it. Understandably, the program created all sorts of pressures for those involved with it.
These pressures inevitably fell on the shoulders of the thirty students of each English Medical Class—my group was the third. For days before their classes actually began, they had to endure marathon lectures by political cadres who warned them that “… the college, the Party, and the whole country” depended on them to succeed. Success in this case meant that they were to become fluent in English, get higher marks in their regular medical exams than other students to prove that they were not slacking off, excel in their political study to show that they did not lose sight of the Socialist Spirit, and above all, display model personal behavior at all times to show that their contact with Westerners had not “corrupted” them.
The first time I saw them I had to sit in front of the class while one of the Chinese teachers gave them a long speech about behaving well, entitled “The Twelve Be’s, the Twelve Don’t Be’s, the Eight Do’s and the Eight Don’t Do’s.” After forty-five minutes of this he at last introduced Jan, my co-teacher for the year, and me. Jan and I stood up and said hello, but there was no response. We faced a mass of trembling paralysis.
Miraculously, though, some of them loosened up after a few weeks. Once they got over the shock and fear of being called on individually rather that reciting together as a group, classes became more interesting. Personalities began to emerge and some of the students even dared to experiment with imagination and humor. Naturally, this led to trouble. One day Teacher Wu brought Terry Lautz, the Yale-China Field Staff Director visiting that week from Hong Kong, to observe our class. The students became nervous right away, so I called on the most confident boy, whom I had given the English name Lenny, hoping that he would get things going. True to form, when I asked him what he would like to do today, he stood up, smiled and answered, “Today I would like to eat your heart and drink your blood.” Everyone got excited after that, and we ended up having an energetic lesson. When the bell rang, I walked over to Teacher Wu and Terry and asked, “Aren’t they a good group?” Terry, who well understood how dreary English classes in China can be, said he’d had a delightful time and complimented Teacher Wu on the quality of the students’ English. Teacher Wu, looking distinctly pale, said “Mm,” and called me into her office.
“
What did that boy say?” she asked, horrified. “You mean Lenny? Oh, he said he wanted to eat my heart and drink my blood! Isn’t he something?” Her face turned dark. “That’s what I thought he said. He must be punished severely! The Field Staff Director must be furious! Think of the report he will give to your Leaders! What a horrible thing to say! You can’t speak like that to a teacher! And the other students laughed! They must all be severely criticized!” I tried to convince Teacher Wu that Lenny’s comment and the other students’ laughter did not reflect disrespect at all, but demonstrated how perceptive they all were. “And how do you figure that?” she asked. “Because, Teacher Wu, in a very short time they have noticed that American teachers have different expectations from Chinese teachers. We like some humor and laughter in our classes, and we enjoy it if the students can occasionally joke with the teacher. The students have never insulted us. If they spoke that way to their Chinese teachers, perhaps you might criticize them, but I don’t think they do. How can you criticize them for acting the way Jan and I encourage them to?” “Mm. This is terrible. If they ever spoke like that to a Chinese teacher, can you imagine what would happen to all of us? They must be criticized—this is China, and they are Chinese students.” Classes were noticeably quieter for a few days after that, but in time the incident blew over and laughter returned to our classroom.
One of the greatest challenges of teaching English in China was breaking students of their compulsion to learn everything by rote and getting them to learn English by using it, instead. My favorite method was to divide them into small groups, each of which had to prepare or improvise short skits based on a given situation. At first this went very slowly. “Julian, you are a policeman. Sinbad, you are a criminal and Julian has just caught you. Have a conversation on the way to the police station.” Silence. “Come on, don’t be nervous. You can think of something—Julian, you start.”
JULIAN: “You are a criminal.”
SINBAD: “I’m sorry.”
Silence. “Sinbad, why don’t you try to bribe Julian?”
SINBAD: “DO you want some money?”
JULIAN: “No, thank you.”
With practice, however, they became quite good at this. One assignment was to interview a Martian who had just landed on Earth and to ask him about his first impressions and so on. A pair of boys had the Martian flee to Earth to seek political asylum. He was a Communist and had been condemned to death by the ruling Fascist Bourgeois Oppressors on Mars. He hoped that the Earthlings would help him by setting him up with a human girl—if he got married he would be safe, for on Mars, he explained, there is a strict law against making widows.
Another assignment was to come up with a convincing advertisement for a product, then perform it as a television commercial. Three girls walked to the front of the classroom, all with their heads hung low. One said “I’m unhappy. I’m very fat.” The second shook her head and said, “I’m unhappy, too. I’m too skinny.” The third blushed, giggled, faced the blackboard and said, “I’m unhappy, too. I can’t find a husband.” Suddenly Juliet—she had chosen her English name after hearing my Romeo and Juliet lecture—marched to the front of the classroom with a basket filled with rolled up pieces of paper. (The students, of course, all knew that in China it is customary at weddings for the bride and groom to distribute “Happiness Candy”—any candy, preferably with the character known as “Double Happiness” printed on the wrapping—to all of their relatives and friends.) Adopting a television announcer’s huge smile and enthusiastic voice, she said, “Ladies and Gentlemen! I am pleased to tell you about a wonderful thing! It is called Juliet’s Happiness Candy, and it is the most wonderful thing in the world! You must have it—you must buy it today. Let me tell you about it, please. This candy makes wishes come true. If you are too fat and you eat it, you will become skinny. If you are too skinny and you eat it, you will become fat. If you are lonely, it will help you get married. Truly it solves all of your problems. Guaranteed—no sad, no cry.” The three sad-looking girls ran to the desk and asked if Juliet’s Happiness Candy could solve their problems. “Of course it can,” Juliet assured them, “but you must buy it first.”
There was one student, however, who did not seem to be adjusting. April came from a village in the Hunan countryside and had never seen Changsha before coming to college, much less a pair of American teachers. At the beginning of the semester she was so frightened she did not dare even to look up from her desk—she buried her head in her hands and would not respond to questions, and once or twice I saw tears drop onto her desk as she struggled to overcome her embarrassment. On the first quiz she did not even raise her pencil. The English Department came very close to removing her from the program and giving her place to someone less talented but more sturdy. Somehow, though, she managed to stay in the class.
Months passed before I could get her to speak audibly in class, but even then she would not look up from her desk. On a class outing, when I took out my camera to take a picture of the group, April disappeared and hid behind a tree, too shy to be photographed. Her classmates liked her and helped her by giving her parts in skits that allowed her to remain seated. Outside of class some of the girls told me that in the dormitory April was less shy, even playful, but in the classroom she became too nervous to speak. The first time April actually raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear, the class applauded. April curled up into a ball, covered her head with her arms and did not come up for several minutes. I thought she was crying but Juliet, who sat next to her, said, “Don’t worry, Teacher Mark. April is happy—she is smiling!” I said, “April, is that true?” and though she did not say anything, her shoulders moved up and down in a little nod.
By the end of the first semester, Jan and I decided that it was time for April to sink or swim. Part of the final examination was an oral quiz. Originally we had planned to let Jan quiz April, because April was less frightened of her. But this seemed a good opportunity to force April to get over her fear. I announced in class the names of those who would test with Jan and those who would test with me, and when I said, “And April, you will be tested by me,” the whole class gasped. April, though I could not see her face, appeared to stiffen.
For days before the exam the students whispered and made predictions about April’s interview with Teacher Mark. A few of the girls even came to my office to ask for a change of decision on April’s behalf. On the day of the exam the students waited in one room while Jan and I conducted the interviews in two other rooms. When I walked into the waiting room and called April’s name, the room fell silent and everyone looked at her. April did not move. “Go into your office,” Juliet said, “she will come.” I went into the office and waited. Suddenly the door opened; April closed it behind her, marched up to me, looked me square in the eyes and said in a booming voice, “I’m ready!” She tested without any difficulty, and when it was over I laughed and said, “April, that was wonderful! How did you do it?” “Am I done?” she asked, still looking directly at me. “Yes, you are, and you did very well.” “I know,” she boomed, then shot out of the classroom, running all the way to the dormitory.
“Little Guo had another accident today,” Hai Bin said as we walked to the post office one afternoon. “We were performing an experiment with a lab dog which involved a minor operation. Little Guo administered the anaesthesia. He inserted the needle, but all of a sudden used too much force. The needle entered the chest cavity and pierced the dog’s heart! My advisor was very angry with Little Guo. By the way,” he continued, “I think Little Guo has found another teacher for you.”
Hai Bin was right; that night Little Guo appeared at the house with a short, stocky fellow who wore a blue cap. I invited them in and poured some tea. I noticed as I handed the cup to the man that the fingers on his right hand were stained a deep yellow from smoking crude cigarettes. “This is Master Liang,” Little Guo said. “Master Liang doesn’t talk much.” As if to show me what he meant, Little Guo stopped speaking and looked
at Master Liang, who indeed said nothing. After a long pause Little Guo continued: “Master Liang is a taiji expert. He is especially good at push-hands. He is the champion of Hunan Province! I met him last week and asked if he would teach you. He said he would.” I smiled at Liang and thanked him. He didn’t look up or smile, saying only “Mm,” and drawing deeply at his cigarette. Nothing was said for several minutes, and I began to feel uncomfortable. I went to my desk and pulled out an album of photographs of my family to show him. He looked at them, nodding every once in a while or saying “Mm,” but I did not get much of a response out of him. Then he stood up. He turned to Little Guo and said, “We should meet two or three nights a week. Do you have a place?” Little Guo said that he knew a place we could use. “Let’s go then,” Liang said, and we left my room.
I followed them reluctantly; my impression of Master Liang was not overwhelmingly positive, and the memory of how sticky it had been discontinuing lessons with Zheng was still fresh in my mind. When we reached the area Little Guo had in mind, though—an empty basketball court—Liang suddenly came to life. He said that taiji was an exercise of both mind and body which, if practiced correctly, not only improved one’s health but actually halted the aging process. Of course, he added, one way taiji prolonged life was by increasing one’s chances of survival if attacked. He demonstrated the form he thought I should learn, Chen style taiji, distinctive for its sudden bursts of speed and power, then asked me to push hands with him. “If you beat me,” he said with a grin, “then you will be my teacher! If I beat you, then I will be your teacher!” He defeated me thoroughly, and with such ease and good humor that at last I could not continue for I had to catch my breath from laughing. At one point when I tried to throw him off balance he tickled me under the arms. When I jumped, he rushed in low, grabbed me by the waist and lifted me straight into the air, holding me over his head in a clean military press. This feat of strength became understandable when he took his shirt off later, revealing an astounding musculature that simply could not have been developed by practicing taiji. He grinned like a little boy and admitted that when he was in his twenties he had been a champion weightlifter with the Provincial Sports Team. Nowadays he loaded hundred-pound bags of rice onto trucks to keep in shape. “That tickle move is pretty useful,” he said, suddenly becoming serious, “but it isn’t a good idea if you’re practicing with female comrades.”
