Читать книгу A WAY OF LIFE - Notes from a Small Chinese Province - Maria Linnemann - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

My Students

June 2001

The majority of my students in the English faculty were girls. I use the term ‘girls’ advisedly. As already mentioned, a prolonged giggle of embarrassment met my first greeting of “Good Morning, Ladies and Gentlemen” ,after which I was kindly informed by Michael, an earnest, highly intelligent student who was to enlighten me now and then on similar significant issues, that until young people married they were called girls and boys. I thanked him, but found myself inexplicably unable to open my lessons with a “Good Morning, boys and girls” when faced with a class of anything up to seventy serious young adult faces. So, a “Good morning” had to suffice. I may use the terms: ‘girls and boys’ when speaking of them here, however. I was old enough to be their mum, after all.

Many of the girl students had a brother who worked and supported the family as well as his sister’s studies. This, I learned, was not uncommon if a girl had achieved better exam results at school and was able to take the entrance exam to university. She would find better-paid employment later and contribute to further improving the family fortunes.

The one-child policy has not applied to ethnic minorities. Besides this there has been the practice, particularly in the farming communities, that if the first child is a girl, having another child after five years has provided an additional chance to produce a male heir to the farm. For some years now it has also been the national policy that if an only child marries another only child, they may have two children. This is to alleviate the problem of caring for elderly parents. I am sure there will be more changes in the future, since people are now living longer here, as elsewhere in the world. And in fact as I write, the Chinese government has announced that families will be allowed to have an additional child. This measure, it is hoped, will help to solve the growing problem of an ageing population and the decline in numbers of the younger generations in employment.

As time went by, I was to discover that social status and the level of education of parents did not necessarily determine a father’s or mother’s attitude towards a daughter. A farmer might well adore his daughter or daughters and encourage them in every way, whereas a university graduate might resent the birth of a daughter and have great difficulty in accepting her, though perhaps learning to recognise and respect her achievements later on. I found that my female students who were born into families belonging to the fast growing middle class were confident, ambitious young people, eager to present their views on how they would like to succeed in their careers, how they would like to bring up their children and how they were determined to conserve and improve the environment. The students coming from farming families were often more reticent in discussions but just as eager to succeed, extremely hard-working and determined to live up to the honoured traditions and high expectations of their parents and grandparents.

The majority of the students from our province grew up in farming families and were first-generation university students. There were other students who hailed from the provincial capital Zhengzhou, and from the prosperous town of Pingdingshan which lies halfway between Nanyang and Zhengzhou. Some of those students had parents who had studied at university and who belonged to the fast-growing, comfortably situated middle class. Whatever the background, the ideals and visions concerning the environment and the issue of social equality and well-being were shared by all my students, as became evident in class discussions and in their contributions to the regular speech competitions held by the faculty.

Our university welcomed students from all over China, from the far north and west to Hainan in the south. The different dialects spoken in these parts made communication a problem for a number of students during the initial weeks and months of study. To alleviate the problem on a domestic level, students coming from the same region were accommodated together in the living quarters on the campus. At the same time, official language courses in Putonghua – Mandarin – were obligatory, so that, before too long, every student learned to communicate in the main national language. Roy and I occasionally met with the phenomenon whilst travelling by train or coach that students around us were conversing in English, in order to understand each other. The reasons for lessons in Mandarin were evident here! On TV, most programmes were subtitled, since the written language was common to all regions. As is wellknown to us in Europe, Cantonese, the language of Guangdong and Canton, is spoken by the majority of Chinese living outside China. Shanghainese, or Wu, is spoken by 80 million Chinese. Mandarin, however, is spoken by over a billion people and is the main Chinese language.

On our campus, the male and female students were accommodated in separate buildings. Each floor contained a number of dormitory rooms fitted out for six to eight students. One side of each room was taken up with two or three double bunk beds; on the other side stood a long table and a number of chairs. A large window opposite the door looked out onto one of the lawns, and it was quite usual to see washing hanging out on a small device, all along the building. The girls’ dormitories generally presented a cosier atmosphere than those of the boys, the walls behind the beds often being hung with favourite items of colourful clothing or displaying favourite photos and pinups of heroes or popular cartoon characters. Nevertheless, tidiness was a well-kept rule and any infringements in that limited space were quickly dealt with.

Privacy was not a factor here but that was nothing new for the students, since the vast majority of them had been weekly boarders at school from an early age. I had been used to my own private sphere for many years, and this made itself noticeable when I was invited to inspect the large washrooms on each floor. A waist-high washbasin in white stone ran the length of each high-ceilinged room, and it was here that the morning and evening ablutions took place. Here too, light clothes and summer shoes were washed before being decoratively hung out to dry outside a dormitory window. Once, years before, I had given a guitar workshop in Luxemburg which was held in an old castle. The washrooms were fitted out just as in these dormitory buildings, so I was familiar with the scene and the practice – but I had to admit, it was not for me. The shower room, it appeared, was equally communal.

Visiting the imposing room housing the long row of loos did nothing to shake my views about privacy. On entering, my attention was drawn at once to a row of shoulder-high stone partitions along the left wall. These separated the simple facilities – the holes in the ground – from each other and provided a certain degree of privacy. There were no doors, however. Walking back to my flat, I made a mental note not to drink more than absolutely necessary before morning class and to dash home after lunch before the afternoon classes. From this silent resolution I never wavered.

One day I was taken to visit one of the male students’ dormitories. The invitation came from a student who wanted to introduce me to her boyfriend, who played the guitar. Mike shared a modest, ground-floor room with three other students. Although the day was cool the door stood open and the young men sat outside, evidently expecting us. As June and I walked up the narrow path in a corner of the grounds that led to the small building, June chatted about her friend and his companions.

“They all get on well together,” she told me, “and they share the cleaning and washing tasks fairly.”

We had arrived at the dormitory and were at once invited in by Mike. His friends joined us.

“It works well most of the time,” June continued, as Mike reached for his guitar.

“But not today,” she concluded, wrinkling her nose. “Now I know why they were sitting outside!” She glanced round, but no socks were in sight.

The friends laughed and Mike sat down to regale us with one of the latest hit songs. He played well and had a soft, alluring tenor voice which I suspected was melting more young hearts than that of his girlfriend only. We applauded heartily. June stood up and turned to me.

“Let’s go,” she breathed theatrically, “and find some fresh air!”

The boys laughed, and laughed again as June turned to Mike and pronounced one word meaningfully: “Socks!”

English Names

All our students had given themselves English names, as had long been the custom at Chinese universities. Notably, a number of young men gave themselves the name of a football or basketball hero or pop star, such as Michael or David. The girls sometimes took names such as May, June or July and fruit names such as Apple or Cherry were quite popular, as were Sunny and Happy. Famous stars also appeared, such as Winona or Maggie. The majority of the students’ names were the same as those traditional ones to be found in any British school, and only occasionally did one feel the need to advise a student against adopting a certain name. One day as Roy and I were at lunch, he told me of a small problem he had with two freshmen whose choices of names were, to say the least, unfortunate.

“I tried to persuade them that “Hitler” and “Satan” are not the best idea,” he said, “but they told me they wanted the names of strong characters.”

“Try suggesting Samson or Popeye,” I said, but Roy’s expression told me that I was not being helpful. “Wait and see,” I continued hastily. “Perhaps their classmates will object.”

I heard later that they had both been persuaded to adopt other names, and I suspected that a measure of peer persuasion had indeed been behind the changes of heart.

Early Lessons

The first time I addressed a class with a question, no one ventured to answer and all eyes were lowered, reminding me of a Bingo session.

“Right,” I thought, “let’s try another way.”

I smiled and walked slowly through one of the isles – something I already knew that my Chinese colleagues were not wont to do. I stopped beside a desk when the girl sitting behind it smiled shyly up at me. I smiled back.

“Do you enjoy speaking English, erm…”

“I’m Cindy”, she said, still smiling. “Yes, I do. I like English very much.”

The ice was broken, and I had learned an important lesson. Henceforth I asked no more questions of the class as a whole. No student would put him- or herself forward and be considered to be showing off. One student told me later on that his father had warned him about volunteering answers.

“Don’t be forward and don’t show what you can do,” his father had said. “If you do, you will be considered proud or vain.“

This modesty and reticence would soon be overcome in small discussion groups of three or four students. It surprised me in the early lessons to see how eagerly each student put forward his or her opinion and subsequently “switched off”, not listening or reacting to the following statements brought forward by others in the group. Listening to others in class appeared to be a novel exercise, and reacting to other opinions required the acquisition of new language, for the most part. Notes were avidly made and very soon numerous phrases such as: “I take your point, but at the same time…” were floating about the classroom. I spent many happy hours in my study of an evening constructing new language “games”. With time, larger group activities such as debates or games with two teams took place, and shyer students gradually gained more confidence.

On one memorable occasion, I recollect, largish groups were standing about discussing the merits of healthy eating. As I visited one group, Kathy turned round suddenly and confronted me with a challenging look.

“Teacher, are you a vegetarian nut?”

“Well,” I said smiling, “It is true that I am a vegetarian, but whether or not I am a nut, I will perhaps have to leave for you to decide!”

She looked puzzled, and only when I had explained further did she smile again and then we both laughed. Being a polite young lady, she told me:

“I don’t think that you are a nut, even if you are a vegetarian!”

A few minutes later I was endeavouring unsuccessfully to squeeze past a large discussion group since all were earnestly focussed on the topic of the importance – or unimportance – of fashion in student life. No one heeded my quiet “Excuse me, please”, until Betty turned and saw me. With an elegant gesture she waved me through.

“Please pass away!” she pronounced blithely, and was a little confused at my expression and the snort of laughter that came from her friend beside her. I quickly explained and blushing, she laughed too. At such moments I remembered the not infrequent faux pas that I made during my early years in Germany. I knew that such was often the way to learn and to retain

A Letter Home in June

June 2001

Dear Ma,

I hope this reaches you soon; I’ve just been told that the university post office will send our letters if they are not overweight and don’t cost more than the usual 6.40 Yuan. That’s good to know!

After a busy teaching day including an evening tutorial with some of the degree class 5, I’m sitting on my bed with my feet up, enjoying the peace and privacy. This evening’s class went very well and my students were pleased, which is the main thing! My class 8 this afternoon were very lively in the discussions arising out of the group game I had devised for them on the theme of: “Good Life Guarantee”. Like all young people, they love to talk about themselves and their ideas about a Good Life were many and varied. As so often, the subject of the environment came up to support views and counter-arguments. It was a joy to see how they tossed their own ideas into the ring and reacted with astonishment at the ideas of others. A serious discussion arose about the wish to have a car later on. The more environmentally conscious students were unhappy with the idea, though the advantages of individual mobility in the countryside were strongly defended by others. There was consensus about the number of children they wished for – one child was not considered to be ideal, though some thought it would be all they could cope with, what with work and perhaps no grandparents close by. Hardly any students wished for more than two children, for reasons ranging from the economical to the practical. Not so different from main European thinking, on the whole! Remembering how shy and silent most of the students were at the outset of the term, this open discussion was very encouraging!

Roy and I are not pleased to have to go to Zhengzhou to have more medical tests – on a Wednesday morning, if you please. I’ll be able to take the first lessons from 07.50 to 09.30 – the rest I will have to make up later. After Wednesday there are some free days, as always at some point in May, and Roy and I will stay in Zhengzhou until the following Tuesday since we had arranged to go there on Saturday anyway. Zhengzhou being the capital city of our province and a university city at that, we are certain to find some good bookstores, and perhaps even some cheese and butter!

Many students go home during a holiday week, but a number have to stay in college since their homes are too far away to make the journey there and back a feasible proposition. It’s particularly hard on the freshmen, some of whom become very homesick during the long months away from their families for the first time.

I must get some sleep – a six o’clock start to the day as always, tomorrow, and the day is fully booked with lessons and the weekly “English Corner” conversation session in the evening, in a corner of the Campus grounds. It is astounding, I must say, to see small primary school pupils coming to the campus to practise their English in these “English Corner” sessions. Their parents bring them, and after a long school day they are surprisingly awake and eager to speak English. Two little boys, Michael and Henry, are particularly keen, though Michael is shy and needs a little encouragement to begin with, each week. Henry, small for his nine years, is as bright as a button and has a winning smile. Questioned about his school last week, he enthused about it and his eagerness to learn.

“And how many children are there in your class, Henry?” I asked.

“One hundred and two,” he pronounced, smiling.

“Is that an unusually big class?” I ventured to ask, trying not to look and sound appalled. Olive, one of my students who was standing close by, broke in.

“Oh no,” she said. “It’s not uncommon at all in our countryside.”

Michael smiled. “My class is smaller – we have eightyone in our class.”

“Your teachers are very busy, then,” I smiled back, thinking of my students of whom the majority would soon be teaching in their home towns and villages.

My students who come to English Corner are amazed at the oral standard of these young children, and I secretly hope that this is providing them with an added incentive to practise!

Well, after all, I didn’t manage to send this off before Roy and I travelled to Zhengzhou. After the days spent sightseeing and searching for bookshops, the meals in unfamiliar places and the six-hour train journey back to Nanyang in a hot, cramped carriage, my lower half rebelled and I decided to listen to it! For one day I managed to run about with two visiting colleagues from other towns, but on the second day Roy took over and I could rest. We are all tired. During a meal together, we learned that they started with fourteen lessons a week; we began with sixteen. I have split my large classes and have twenty-two lessons. Four evenings a week are taken up with extra-curricular activities so, until the summer break at least, I’ll see how I manage to cope, with all the prep and the increasing level of dry heat here in Henan!

Late yesterday evening I saw and heard a most amazing player of the traditional Erhu (traditional one-stringed fiddle) on TV performing Bach’s Double Violin Concerto with a recorded second violin and orchestra – fantastic! One hears a lot of western classical music here on advertisements and so on. From time to time there is a report about some school club or other enjoying an outside activity, during which the young people may burst into song on occasion. I have already heard Mendelssohn’s “On Wings of Song” sung with Chinese words and one or two other classical melodies to which a Chinese text has been added.

I am extremely busy from early morning till late at night most days, but I must say that: “wŏ kaīxīn”, I feel happy. I’ve been told by my vice-dean, by the way, that the students are asked to write a half-yearly report on their foreign teachers and express their level of satisfaction. Whether that is now a practice in European universities, I have no idea!

When Roy and I went to Zhengzhou we took our medical documents with us which contained all the pre-China vaccine details, and reported to the medical authorities. All our tests were satisfactory but we had to give another sample of blood. I gathered that this was for a repeat test re HIV, and that did not altogether come as a surprise. I’ll tell you about my HIV/AIDS project in another letter, when it is hopefully well underway.

Whilst we were in Zhengzhou we missed the university Sports and Choral Competition, which was bad luck. Our English Department won both! I had heard our 100-strong choir sing in rehearsal, however, and they sounded magnificent.

Watching TV at the weekend is a good way to get to know more about the music scene in China There are masses of song performances on TV, and the “sob” content is amazing-you have to take your hankie out ten minutes before they begin! A marvellous thing is the broadcasted National Song Competition, which I am told is a regular event. There are several categories of song including Folk Song and Opera, both Chinese and Western. The standard is incredibly high and I found it interesting while watching one national competition that one or two of the singers were dressed in smart uniforms. It would appear that the military universities also have their music departments. To be able to listen to the whole event is a real Sunday treat.

Here, with the temperatures now in the upper thirties, teaching is very strenuous at times and I often feel extremely tired. The students who want to engage me to help them with their own teaching of school children during the coming summer break are getting a firm NO! During the two months of vacation I’ll be spending the first four weeks teaching voluntary courses that I’ve prepared for a group of visiting teachers who are otherwise on correspondence courses with our faculty. That will be quite enough and I’ll certainly need the break afterwards.

Our representative is coming in about half an hour and we’ll have dinner together, so I’ll just have a quick coffee and change into something cool.

Well, that was kind. Just before I left home, Dean Hu arrived bringing me some throat tablets. I had been croaking unhappily during the whole morning and had had no time to go to a chemist. How he knew about that I don’t know! Perhaps from the class prefect. Anyway, we had a pleasant lunch together with our VSO representative in one of the elegant dining rooms which are situated above the students’ restaurant and reserved for staff and visitors. When I arrived home just now my feet were like paddles, so I’m sending them up against the wall for an hour. Then – Post office here I come, at last!

Lots of love, and regards to the Pottery Group!

The “Hope Project” and Family Cai

July 2001

“Teacher, I have a card that I would like you to look at.”

Michael approached me at the end of a lesson in which the class had discussed the characteristics of a good partnership.

“You can take it with you,” he continued earnestly, fixing me with the expression I was growing accustomed to – serious, intelligent, expectant, with the hint of a smile.

“Thank you, Michael, I’ll certainly read the information,” I said, looking down at the young face of a girl whose large, dark eyes seemed to meet my gaze from the small card.

This brief episode was to change my life in Nanyang.

I stood in Vice-Dean Wang’s office, facing his desk and holding Michael’s card in my hand. Mr. Wang smiled.

“I think I know what you’re going to ask,” he began. “The “Hope Project” is an excellent idea initiated by the government in Beijing. I myself have adopted a daughter in this project,” he continued, “and have become a third parent, so to speak. It is quite a common thing for children to adopt one of their relatives or a parent’s friend as a second mother or father. Up to now, more teachers in our English department have adopted children in the project than in any other department,” he concluded a little proudly, and looked at me expectantly.

“I would be very happy to be a part of the project, Mr. Wang. Would it be a problem for me as a foreigner to do so?”

“Not at all! The university officials will arrange everything. One thing, would you prefer to adopt a boy or a girl?”

I don’t mind: either would be just fine,” I smiled, and left for my afternoon classes.

A few days later he called me into his office once more.

“We have found a little girl for you in Tongbai, a village not far away. She had an accident when she was very little and lost her lower left leg. Her father and mother are poor farmers with two daughters, and they are struggling.”

A week later we headed for Tongbai, Mr. Wang and I, and my new student friend and translator, Lucille. We were accompanied by a number of Party officials from the university and the city, and a photographer. I guessed that this was going to be a big P.R. exercise for both the University and the city, but if it served to further publicize the Hope Project, I was all for it.

After a two hour journey in the comfortable limousines provided by the university we arrived in Tongbai and made our way to the farm home of family Cai. As we approached the open gate on the front wall of the traditional square courtyard, a small group of people emerged. From the description I had been given of Cai Zheng I at once recognised the little girl I was to adopt. On either side of her stood her mother and her older sister, Li Jun. Their father stood behind them, a man whose smooth, boyish face belied his age. The sight of our large group must have been somewhat intimidating and I noticed that Cai Zheng moved closer to her mother, her wooden crutch supporting her on her left side. The cameraman moved in as our introductions were made, and the girls took my hand in turn with small, shy smiles. I greeted the parents and we arranged ourselves for more photo taking.

After this I was taken on a short tour of the courtyard and farmhouse. As we passed through the gate we espied a long, low-walled rectangular pigsty to our left that was half open and half covered by a simple wooden roof. It was occupied by a stately sow surrounded by upward of a dozen pink piglets, evidently recent arrivals. We were then introduced to the noisy goats and hens in the wooden, strawfloored byre which stood to the right of a one-story brick building, the living quarters of the family. Against the northern wall stood the squat kitchen building, containing a large stone stove and a range of cooking utensils.

Preparations for a meal had evidently been underway and Lucille and I were invited to join the family for the midday meal, Mr. Wang and the Party officials having departed for Nanyang soon after the photo-shooting. Mrs. Cai and Li Jun disappeared into the kitchen building whilst we followed Cai Zheng through the large, wooden double doors of the house which opened directly into the living room. A square wooden table had been placed in front of the worn, dark brown leather sofa which stood against the left wall, and a number of low wooden chairs common to all traditional country farm homes were placed around it. Lucille, Cai Zheng and I sat together on the sofa and chatted quietly, Lucille translating for us. I was moved when Cai Zheng took my hand, smiling, and my student reminded me of Mr. Wang’s words that it was quite normal for a child to accept a relative or friend of the family as a second “muqin” (mother) or “fuqin”(father) who provided an additional source of support and comfort and at times much needed encouragement. (Financial matters were not mentioned, but silently understood.)

When the midday meal was brought in and placed on the low table it was clear that a great amount of trouble had been taken to provide a veritable feast. The six overflowing dishes of vegetables and eggs accompanying the bowls of rice were, I suspected, not a daily occurrence in that household. The food was delicious and our expressions of appreciation were greeted with shy pleasure by Mrs. Cai and Li Jun. Now and then Cai Zheng’s kuaizi (chopsticks) transferred choice samples from her dish to mine – a charming, traditional way of showing friendship that was still widely to be found in the countryside. A little later I reciprocated this gesture and Cai Zheng beamed with pleasure. We drank glasses of traditional “flower-power” tea, as I liked to call it since green, yellow and orange stem-less flowers floated on top of the boiling water. The blossoms invariably made their way into my nose as I attempted to avoid drinking them, making me sneeze and the girls grin. I was already familiar with the sight of this tea as large lidded glass containers with the beverage stood on the desks of many of my students, especially in the early mornings.

After our meal Mrs. Cai suggested that the girls show us the little pagoda that stood not a hundred yards from the farmhouse. We walked the short distance along the dusty road, watched by a few curious neighbours, and soon reached the colourful little pagoda that housed a deep well. I understood that this well signified the source of one of the tributaries of the “Bai He”, the White River, but of far more interest to Cai Zheng and Li Jun was the story of a legendary dragon believed to have his dwelling in its depths. I took photos of the two sisters as we circled the well, noting how expertly Cai Zheng moved with her simple wooden crutch, having no difficulty in keeping up with her sister and the young friends who had joined them by then.

Later that afternoon we made our goodbyes since it was time to catch the bus back to Nanyang and our campus. The little family stood close together at the gate of the courtyard and waved for a long time till we were out of sight.

During our first meeting as on the many subsequent visits Cai Zheng very quietly, almost continuously, hummed to herself. A therapist had once told me that this phenomenon was likely to be a “self-comforting” action, often noted after a traumatic experience, and the humming could continue long after the trauma had been – superficially, at any rate – overcome. Certainly in Cai Zheng’s case it appeared to be a plausible explanation.

Li Jun, her older sister, was a silent girl, whose main means of communication with me were her ready smile and her regular warming of my permanently cold hands. As to how she had experienced her little sister’s tragic accident and the subsequent events I could only conjecture. She too had been a small child, playing outside the courtyard with Cai Zheng at the moment the large van had failed to see her while passing the farmyard on the narrow muddy road. Perhaps it explained her silence, and her visible protective and caring behaviour towards her sister.

As was the case with many Chinese fathers, whether in the cities or in the countryside, the girls’ father had longed for a son, and the disappointment of fathering two girls was perhaps at the heart of his neglect for his family. Mrs. Cai carried the burdens of the farm work in the rice fields, the upbringing of the girls and the care of the farmyard animals, supported by Mr. Cai’s mother. This grandmother of five foot one was a lively, indomitable lady with a heart of gold. The girls loved and admired her. Her son Mr. Cai, it must be said, spent the greater part of his time with his drinking and betting companions, spending too much of the hard-earned money from the farm. His mother once told me in confidence:

“It’s my fault. I spoilt my only son, and now he is lazy and does not have any taste for work.”

The old lady was not a widow; her husband was extremely ill however, and could do nothing to help her on their own small farm – an added burden for the kind grandmother. I was astounded to learn later that she had gathered in the whole rice harvest almost single-handedly.

Not every family in which there is no son is a scene of disappointment. Take Mrs. Cai’s brother, for example. He was some kind of local village official and he and his wife had two young daughters. These girls visited their cousins from time to time on a Sunday and I got to know them on my visits to the Cai farm. They were happy, self-confident, welldressed girls, and carried themselves like little princesses. Their mother sometimes brought pretty clothes for the Cai children, such as a colourful T-shirt or a new pair of jeans. My presents were also mainly clothes, especially in winter, when padded jackets, scarves and gloves were very welcome, but I also liked to bring the girls items for school such as pencils and exercise books, which were gladly received.

Above: The entrance of our English Faculty building Below: Roy and I perform: “I am a Rock” in one of the annual concerts

One of my smaller classrooms

An English Corner Evening in the campus grounds

Roy and I are the sole judges of a speech competition

Roy and I perform: “I am a Rock” in one of the annual concerts

Arriving at a school where I was to teach – and sing, as was always requested. It was evidently break-time for the students

The path through the residential area to our house

Retired music teachers who met to play behind our courtyard every Sunday morning. In the background, the corner of our house.

With Xiao Shuang during an annual college concert

A gardener rests at midday in the campus grounds

Teaching during a visit to a local school

A few bicycles parked outside the main supermarket in town. Five years later, one saw electric cycles, mopeds and motorbikes and almost no bicycles.