Letter from China

By "Peter" "Froning"

Letter from China is a poignant and irreverent diary of the author's yearlong (2001-2) experience of teaching English to college students in Beijing, People’s Republic of China. From the very first pages, the author draws you into his struggle with a culture worlds away from his comfort zone. The author’s generous and compelling personality allowed him to gain access to the lives of his students and their families, who became characters in his tale. One can experience the author’s wit and humanity throughout the narrative.

The author's humorous view of China is especially timely and dovetails with the current explosion of interest in that country as it enters the modern world. The book is neither a travelogue nor a look at the government, although elements of those subjects are woven into the story. Instead, it is an engaging look at China, tailored toward those who know little about it. Still, those who have lived and/or traveled there will also enjoy the book as it reminds them of the absurdities they, too, experienced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribl
• Release date: Nov 26, 2003
• ISBN: 9781633480087

"Peter" "Froning"

Peter James Froning is the author of Letter from China, an account of his year teaching English to Chinese university students. Before that he was an economic developer and former accountant (CPA) and devoted follower of the band, Procol Harum. He was raised in the small town of Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, but spent most of his adult life in Wilmington, Delaware, and Albuquerque, New Mexico. Most of his professional life was spend helping others develop small businesses, particularly within the multi-cultural world of the Land of Enchantment.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

This book is an edited compilation of emails from the author to his friends and family during his time teaching English to Chinese students at the North China University of Technology (NCUT) from October 2001 to June 2002.  The title is derived from the subject line of these emails.

It is hoped that you will appreciate participating in the author’s journey with good humor.  In particular, it is fervently hoped that the persons represented herein will be kind in their response to their characterizations and the stories featuring them.  Be assured that all descriptions come out of a foundation of love and respect.

It is anticipated that you will appreciate the accompanying photographs, most of which have been provided by Janice, one of Peter’s students.

PART 1

Week One

Greetings from Beijing, Peoples’ Republic of China!

….where I landed just a few days ago.  I’m not sure why (it seemed like a good idea at the time), but I have come here to be an English Teacher at the North China University of Technology.

Now keep in mind I am a 47-year-old economic developer and former accountant, not a teacher, and I don’t speak a word of Chinese.  In the beginning, I was just looking to take a break from my country for awhile, and at first searched the Internet for community development jobs in places like Belarus or Cameroon or Borneo or whatever, but no go.  But, when you do that type of search, the banner ads keep flashing: Teach English in China!  Teach English in China!  After awhile, it started to seem like a nifty idea.  So here I am.

I didn’t do much research on China before coming over, but one thing I did learn is that ever since Deng Xiaoping discarded the days of the Red Guard and the Cultural Revolution (engendered by a then aging and nearly insane Chairman Mao), and created the socialist open market system, China has been booming.  In these last twenty years, China’s economy has grown phenomenally—much faster than any other nation on Earth.  This country of 1.3 billion people has fallen in love with profit and materiality again, after a very long forced drought.  Not only that, but they love anything Western, especially the English language.  People all over China want to learn English, and only English.

I also discovered that China is short about 200,000 native English speakers each year.  Thus, it was not surprising that within 12 hours of putting my resume on the teach-English-in-China corner of the web, I had five job offers.  It is said that you can go into downtown Beijing and hang a sign around your head with the words, I speak English, and you’ll have a job in 20 minutes.  I certainly have never been a teacher and get the feeling I could have been a Hell’s Angel or Trent Lott and jobs would have fallen from the sky.

So of the five jobs, I picked this university position in Beijing (nobody’s English is good enough to explain to me what happened to Peking).  What better people to learn from about a place than its university students?  Besides, I’m not a kindergarten or language school kind of guy.  The deal with the university is this:  You get 3,000 yuan (pronounced you-EN) a month, which is only about $471 but an enormous salary in China; a free furnished apartment, free medical and free food in the cafeteria.  In exchange, you teach 12 hours a week to kids who have been studying English for about 10 years.  So, I went ahead and e-mailed my confirmation (on Monday, September 10th, 2001).

There was neither a phone call nor a fax exchanged on this deal—this was a 100% e-mail thing.  Thus, I landed in Beijing cold, not knowing if this was some sort of international scam or what.  I left baggage claim and entered through a morass of seemingly thousands of people, each holding signs in English or Chinese.  Finally, Jack Yang, the recruiter, holding a sign that said, Mr. Peter, found me and took me to a Japanese hotel (?) to rest overnight before going out to the university.  He took me to a nice place for dinner, chain smoking throughout the meal of dumplings and fried fish.  After the 14-hour flight, I hit the hay darn early (there was certainly nothing comprehensible on the TV).  The phone rang throughout the night, with female voices asking me questions in some Asian language but I just kept hanging up and eventually slept well.

With a little time the next morning, I took a walk in advance of my 2 p.m. pickup.  I had no idea where I was, and there surely were no other foreigners or English language signs in sight.  As I walked around, including some back streets, nobody really seemed to notice me.  I got about as much attention as, say, a falling leaf; just a quick tilt of the head, often hidden by a quick glance away.  I don’t know why I was surprised by this.  Maybe folks here are very private, or shy, or maybe they just hate foreign devils like me.  I certainly hope not.  Since all signage was in Chinese, ridiculously I was forced to have lunch at the sushi restaurant in the hotel—at least there they had pictures I could point at.

Promptly at two, Mr. Bill from the university came to get me, car and driver in tow.  It was an interesting and very long (and very harrowing!) ride out to the university.  I saw little in the way of tall buildings, but rather an ocean of tall pink apartment buildings against a very drab, gray, overcast sky.  We finally entered through the university front gate, guarded by soldier-like men in shabby gray uniforms, with the admittedly menacing red flag of China whipping overhead.  I was immediately taken to a meeting, consisting of Bill, his boss Director Wang who is head of the Foreign Affairs Office, and Miss Chong, head of the English Department, who is to be my boss.  After very brief pleasantries, I was handed a contract.  One side of it was in English while the other identical side was in Chinese.  I was asked to review it carefully (I chose the English version) but I didn’t really (although I did note the penalty buy-out option was about $33).  I just signed it.  I mean, what choice did I have?

The four of us, along with the driver and car, then went out for dinner.  Course after course of I don’t know what came out (it sure didn’t look like American Chinese food), but I did learn a few things from the conversation.  There are, apparently, 7,000 students at this university.  The vast majority of these are computer and technology majors, although there are some art, law, architecture and other classes.  In the Humanities Department, there are primarily Japanese Majors but exactly 248 English majors, exactly 62 for each grade.  I was told that about 90% of the English majors are female.  I’m guessing that no self-respecting Chinese BMOC tech head would be caught dead learning the pansy English language.  This particular bit of news was taken well by me.  I was also told that there are nine other professors in the English department, but they are all Chinese and their pronunciation is not so good, so my job is to be the finisher, the guy who has perfect American pronunciation. Not a bad gig, I’d say.

For this semester though, I have been asked to teach Spoken English only to the sophomore English majors while I will teach History, Current Events and Literature to the junior English majors.  Each sophomore class (Nos. 1 and 2) has (exactly) 31 students while the two junior classes will be combined into one big group to listen to the new foreign teacher.  I was also dumb enough to ask when I might get to meet the other foreign teachers.  Duh, you’re it, pal! (they didn’t put it exactly like that). In fact, it appears that I am the only native English speaker of any kind within 20 miles of this western suburb of Beijing, and this information suddenly made me feel strikingly lonely. 

My home here is the Hotel Authorized for Foreigners to Live In which, believe me, ain’t a hotel.  I have a small room with a single hard bed, two uncomfortable chairs, a desk and a TV that, when it works, plays only about six fuzzy stations—in Chinese only.  Still, like a stupid American, I watch it.  Also, there is the impossible armoire, so named as it is impossible to get anything in and out of it.  There is a bathroom that is about 4 by 4 with a showerhead that drains through a hole in the floor, which is right next to the toilet and sink.  The hot water is about the temperature of the ocean off the coast of Atlantic City in September, plus I get the sense the sewer must run quite close by, if you know what I mean.  Also, there is a tiny kitchen with a sink that looks like it drains straight to America (no goose neck here).

Each morning, whether I am asleep or awake, clothed or unclothed (I keep a bathrobe right where I can get at it), the hotel maid knocks cursorily and then lets herself in to empty the microscopic wastepaper basket and to deliver the two daily steel cauldrons of boiled water.  As you might guess, you can’t drink the water here.  I don’t know why and frankly, I don’t want to.  Apparently all the water here in China is boiled first and is then apportioned to you in these 20-inch high cauldrons.  They are old and dented, and the silvery steel exterior is badly faded; but they work amazingly well.  When, and if, I have my morning tea before the maids arrive, the water is still scalding hot, even after 24 hours.  Now if I could just find some coffee somewhere….

As I have a few days to kill before classes begin, I want to go into the center of Beijing and look around (I live about 25 miles from downtown).  I asked Bill how to get to the Metro (subway) which I know is out there somewhere.  He said, Go to the campus gate and get on the 503 bus and that will take you to the subway.  I asked, How will I know when I get to the subway?  He replied, Everyone will get off the bus!  Hmm…it’s one yuan for the bus (about 12 cents) and three for the subway.  What the heck, why not?

Wish me luck!

Peter

Week Two

Greetings Again from Beijing!

….where Bill was right; everybody got off the bus, and so did I.  There was a dark, dank, jam-packed downward stairway near the bus stop and, thus, I found the subway.  I looked at the ticket taker and said, Tiananmen? in my best (and only) Chinese, and she pointed in the correct direction.  After an interminable ride on a jam- packed subway (everything is jam-packed here), I ended up at Tiananmen Square (they are nice enough to show the stops in English lettering, but it’s still in Chinese).  A magnificent place!  Thousands of people on what is supposed to be the largest public square in the world (about 30 football fields, I’d say).  There were kites everywhere, and, although they were spectacular, the confusion provided a great opportunity to get my throat slit by kite string.  Across the 10-lane main street of Beijing was the Imperial Palace, inside of which is the Forbidden City, home of the last emperor, but which now has a gigantic portrait of Chairman Mao on the front. Waiting to get in was an interminable stream of perhaps a thousand people.  I think the plan will have to be to make friends with a student and see for myself later.

I took lunch at the Mickey D’s that is the second largest in the world—800 seats (thank God for guidebooks).  I then took a walk through a very jam-packed, but thankfully pedestrian only, shopping district.  As you might imagine, you don’t want to try to cross the street here.  Now I know this is true all around the rest of the world, but these taxis and busses don’t seem to care whether you live or die.  They will never wave you through an opening in the gridlock.  And if they are coming fast, they will slam on the brakes at the last millisecond—just for maximum fuel efficiency.

I guess I would say that Beijing looks, at least downtown, like a very modern city.  You could take away all the signs and all the Chinese and it would look a little like, say, Trenton, New Jersey.  The killer thing though is the pollution.  I’ve been to L.A. on a bad day, but these guys make California look positively amateurish.  On this day, the sun was a dim red disc in the sky. When you walk, your chest hurts like you just finished a whole pack of Camel-nons in 20 minutes.  They have got a lot work to do before hosting the Olympics in 2008, in particular hosting the Olympic athletes.  No one will run in this stuff.

On the long way home I read a Chinese picture newspaper and looked at the pictures until I finally arrived at my stop.  I walked up and hopped on the 503 bus where I’d gotten off it in front of the Constellation Store that morning. It was funny that nobody else got on, and I wondered why I was alone.  I soon discovered that the 503 takes a 15-minute break after every loop and soon found myself in the bus yard nearby.  They turned off the engine, and the silence was accompanied only by that slow click, click, click that you hear when an old diesel engine is cooling off.  Soon after that, the driver started barking at me and, thus, I began making pointless gestures with my hands suggesting our going again.  It’s funny while gesturing, you somehow find yourself saying, in English, When are we going again?  Nobody can understand you, what’s the point?  You might as well say, The mean red dog drives a Ferrari! and wave your hands the same way.  She calmed down eventually and even fetched me a piece of sweet corn from her dirty leather bus driver’s bag  It tasted pretty good. After a bit, several other people from the bus yard came over to get a look at me.  We talked about nothing, just like we do in the U.S., and pretty soon, we started up the big bus again and lumbered back to the University.  My first new friends in China!

I had my first class on Tuesday.  Miss Chong led me down the dusty hallway of dilapidated Classroom Building One.  She pulled open the rickety wooden door and there were 62 Chinese university students in the dank classroom who looked up and smiled broadly in unison.  Cool!  Miss Chong tried to introduce me, but as she has made no effort to learn anything about me, she soon left and the class and I said our hellos.  Instinctively breaking out my community development skills, I went around to each one and shook their hands.  The vast majority of the class expressed a deep look of shock, but what the hell; they don’t pay me to be Chinese.  Apparently very few, if any, have ever had a native English teacher before.  I’m told that in China, the kids learn the bulk of their English from language tapes.  They read a book of phrases while wearing headphones; listening and repeating, listening and repeating.  Not much in the way of grammar, structure or anything else, just sheer memorization.  However, being Chinese they are absolutely paralyzed with fear to speak to me. One student did have the courage to tell me that my voice does not sound like the one on the tape and indeed, although I have a neutral accent and speak slowly, clearly a lot of them can’t understand a single word I’m saying.

For this first day of History class, I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.  I stupidly decided to have them take turns reading from the textbook, mostly just to discover how good their English was.  During the break, a young lady came over to me and said, What you are doing is very stupid (I found out later that her limited dumb synonym vocabulary consisted only of stupid).  The students just want to hear you talk about the history of the U.S.!  I knew right away she was right but I was also completely surprised by her audacity.  So, just to be careful, I went to the American Family Culture section of the textbook and did a whole thing on dinner parties, how to set a table, how the men stand up when a woman enters the room and all that stuff.  It was a big hit.  After class, that young lady came over and introduced herself.  Her American name is Jennifer (Chinese name, Wang Lu), and we had lunch together in cafeteria #3.  It turns out she is smart (and a tad mischievous as well), and her English is fantastic.  In the intervening days, we have become fast friends.  Now we have started taking walks around campus and she hums quietly to herself.  I ask her why and she says, It’s because I am very happy!  My first real friend!

I’ve now had my other classes, and all I can say is that the kids, although shy, are an absolute pleasure to work with.  I think I might even be popular, as I have been given a special invitation to English Corner (whatever that is) every Wednesday night.  It’s really rather amazing what amazes them, and what they find boring.  They were amazed that I knew so much about the Wen Ho Lee case, which fascinated everyone here, and that I once shook the hand of Richard Nixon when I was a kid; Nixon sits, apparently, at the right hand of Mao here.  On the other hand, they were bored to hear about my work history in economic development.  That’s all right, I was bored with it, too! 

Yesterday, I saw my new friend and about-to-be Chinese tutor, old Professor Zhou.  Last week on campus he threw himself on me.  So!  You are the new English teacher!  I will teach you Chinese!  I like him very much because his English is almost perfect, and he is always, always smiling.  He is a man of a perpetual five-day shadow, who—10 years ago—was the head of the English Department here.  Anyway, he asked me to go for one of our walks but I told him, no, that my back was hurting (my traditional damn Chinese bed is as hard as a rock).  He