Our apartment doesn’t really have
a shower, per se, but rather a shower fixture attached to the wall and a
curtain that separates the toilet and shower side of the bathroom from the sink
and washer side of the bathroom. So I
stood in the bathroom showering, watching the soapy water run across the floor
of the bathroom to the hole behind the toilet when I remembered that today was
Thanksgiving (even if it was still Wednesday afternoon/evening across the
entirety of America).
With the realization that it was
Thanksgiving came the idea that I should probably wear something special to
school in order to celebrate. Opting
against a sweater or a collared shirt, I settled upon wearing one of my
football jerseys to remind myself of the traditional football game I would be
missing with my friends in Northbrook later that day. Looking to the pictures on my wall I knew
that the previous two years I had worn my G-Reg jersey (2007) and my Tom
Zbikowski Kyle Rudolph/Ethan Johnson green Notre Dame jersey (2008), so it
only made sense that I wear the only other football jersey in my closet: my
40’s Jersey.
By 7:15 we were on the bus that
picks up all of the teachers and drives them to our school. As usually happens, Gavin and I were the last
people to get on the bus (our apartment is near the last stop) and so we had to
stand in the aisle of the bus for the ten minutes or so of swerving through
traffic and near collisions until we got to school.
On Thursdays I don’t have to
teach until 3rd Period, so I went to the Salesian House that is
attached to the school and had a bit more to eat for breakfast (after the bowl
of Cocoa Puffs I had at home) while I read Simmons’
latest mailbag. Getting the mailbag
on Thanksgiving was such a great way to start the day as they seem to happen so
infrequently these days. If somebody
offered me weekly Simmons mailbags for the rest of my life in exchange for the
final season of Lost, I’d take the
trade and walk away a happy man.
Anyways, around 9:45 it was time
to go to my first class of the day: the third year students. Because it was Thanksgiving I was determined
to spend my two classes talking to my students about the holiday and telling
them stories about what my friends and family would be doing in America that
day. The students don’t really like to
do work all that much, and talking about Thanksgiving would be a great way to
try to get the students talking in English and keep them from complaining about
the book.
It wasn’t.
The first problem with my third
year students is that they like to sit next to the radiators on the side of the
classroom. Usually, I’m ok with this as
long as they continue to participate in the exercises and do their homework. It’s much easier to get these students to
participate in simple book, however, than it is to get them conversing with me
about an American holiday. While I
started by talking about Thanksgiving, I quickly became frustrated with the
students that weren’t paying attention.
Some students were talking
amongst themselves; some were fooling around with cell phones, while others
just had their heads down nearly sleeping at their desks. The students that were paying attention
continuously asked if we could listen to music or watch a movie during the
class (a recurring theme with my third year students). While I asked the students to pay attention,
and tried to ask questions, it was very difficult to get them involved with the
class.
I started to become angry and
upset. Not just the type of angry that
can be pretty much self-contained, but the Hulk-style rage that I sometimes
burn off by going on a run. At this
point, however, I couldn’t leave the classroom to sprint 500 yards before
dejectedly walking a couple miles, so I sort of flipped out at the students.
Aggravated, I had them move to
the desks in the front and center of the classroom near the board so that we
could continue class. I had them take
out their books and we started to do the activities from the book that they
loathed. Despite the fact that the
students hate these activities, some of them were actually more participatory
when we worked out of the book than when I was trying to talk to them. Others, however, kept their heads down on
their new desks, or talked while other people were talking, or attempted to
work on things for other classes.
Trying to get everybody involved,
and frustrated because these students didn’t pay any attention when I was
talking to them about Thanksgiving, I started to nag one of my students to
answer a question. As I repeatedly asked
her, she refused to lift her head off the desk, so I took my book and loudly
hit the desk so she would get up. She
didn’t, and I asked somebody else to give me an answer.
By the end of class I was
frustrated, angry, and emotionally drained.
I stood in the front of the classroom leaning on the podium and
apologized to the class for getting upset with them. I then asked them to pay more attention and
work a little harder during class. I
told them that we were not going to spend every class watching movies and
listening to music because I had come a really long way to teach them
English. “I could be back in America
with my friends and family right now,” I said, “but I chose to be here with
you, and I’d appreciate it if you tried a little harder in class for me.”
Through the next couple periods
(as well as lunch) I was angry and upset.
I sat in the office watching episodes of 30 Rock (the show we’re now watching after finishing the first two
seasons of Gossip Girl) on my
computer and being pretty oblivious to anything and everything that was
happening around me in the office.
After midnight passed in Chicago,
I logged onto my parents computer so that I could post my Things I Am Thankful
For blog post. As I went though it and
made some last minute adjustments I thought about all my friends back in
America. I thought about my friends from
Northbrook who were probably (dare I say it) sharing a few beers at the
Landmark Inn at that very moment, I thought about the people from school that
were spread across the country with their own family and friends, and I figured
that this Thanksgiving had to be the worst day of my time here yet.
After uploading the blog post I
was overcome not only with the feelings of dread that I have whenever I publish
anything overtly personal (like my sister’s birthday Observer Column) but also
an intense feeling of sadness because I was so far away for Thanksgiving. Again, the questions of what I was doing here
in China came to the forefront of my thoughts.
But I didn’t have too much time
to dwell on that, because it was time to teach my first year students.
In my first year class I was
actually able to talk about Thanksgiving.
The students listened, and we actually talked about things. I told them about the Pilgrims and how
America is a country of immigrants (I don’t think they understood this). I told them about the meal that everybody
eats, about Turkey, and potatoes, and stuffing (I don’t think I even fully
understand what stuffing is). I told
them about parades that were on TV, and how in America these parades have
balloons and floats instead of tanks and missiles (I don’t think any of us
understand this, because parades suck).
I told them about football, about the Dallas Cowboys and Detroit Lions
and the game with my back home friends.
Then, just when I was running out
of things to talk with them about, we started talking about their
holidays. We talked about all sorts of
holidays that they have in China. I
found out that apparently Singles
Day was two weeks ago and that nobody told me (note to self: start a
Singles Day in America when I get home).
They told me about all sorts of holidays that they have in China when
certain foods are supposed to be eaten.
By the time my first year class
ended, I was no longer upset about the morning class, and had, in fact, been
reinvigorated by my first year students.
The school day was coming to a close, and Gavin and I had gotten
directions to the restaurant where we could apparently get a Turkey Dinner for
Thanksgiving. While we normally get off
the teacher bus at the first stop, to get to the restaurant we took the bus through
the streets of Yanji all the way to what seemed like the last stop.
After getting off the bus and
walking for a few minutes we arrived at the restaurant where we would have our
Thanksgiving Dinner.
***
After nearly three months in
Yanji (with a short break to Beijing and Xi’An) Gavin and I have become pretty
accustomed to being the only white people standing in a room, or walking down
the sidewalk, or in a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter. We don’t really notice it when little
children take special notice of us, and it doesn’t even bother me that I only
understand fractions of what people are saying.
Since arriving at the beginning
of September (not including our trip) we had seen less than ten white people in
Yanji. There are the two of us, the
Italian brother that works at the school (3), two Russian college aged girls in
a market (4, 5) we saw once in September, a guy walking down the street wearing
a Michigan sweatshirt I saw in October (6), the American Priest we have seen in
Church a few times (7), the Italian priest that visited the Salesians for a
weekend around Halloween (8), and a couple Russian women I saw in the mall when
I bought my coat (9, 10).
That’s it . . . ten white people.
When we walked into the
restaurant where we were told we could find Thanksgiving dinner, it came as a
huge surprise to us then, that there were white people everywhere. Walking through the doorway to a restaurant
that could seat roughly 80-100 people I was shocked to see about half the
tables were filled with westerners. As I
took off my hat and scarf my face must have been brimming with excitement and awe
when the owner of the restaurant (a white man that spoke flawless American
English) came up to us and introduced himself.
Like Alice, Dorothy, Neo, and the
passengers of flight 815 before us; our world had been completely thrown for a
loop. Instantaneously we had dropped
down the rabbit hole and crashed through the looking glass which came right
back out into a bizzaro version of Yanji that was completely different than
what we had grown to expect from the city.
The man, it turned out, was a
protestant minister that came to Yanji to teach in a school and ended up
opening a restaurant. He told us how happy
they were to have us, and led us to a table where a little girl (probably 8
years old) came and offered us drinks (non-alcoholic, because they are very
religious protestants). She was one of
the minister’s daughters.
Awestruck, I sat at our table drinking
my Sprite (through a bendy straw!) and looking around the room. There were several tables of Koreans (who, I
found out were actually Korean-Americans) and several other tables filled with
white people. What struck me most were
the ages of the people at the tables.
This wasn’t a room full of young service workers that were giving a year
or two, but a room full of families that were seemingly spending the rest of
their life in China.
It was particularly shocking to
see the young kids there. Kids of all
ages were running around or talking to each other, and it was shocking to see
them here in a far flung region of China.
It never really occurred to me that people would do service or
missionary work in a far flung region of the world and choose to raise their
kids there. Personally, I don’t think I
would have been able to come here had I even been seriously dating anybody, while
these people had seemingly brought their whole families here.
Our waitress (the 8-year old
daughter of the minister) brought us our dinner. A large Turkey leg, a pile of mashed
potatoes, stuffing, bread, and some brown substance that tasted like brown
sugar with a hint of something gross (I think it might have been yams). I picked up the knife and fork and realized
that I hadn’t actually used a knife and fork in THREE MONTHS. Sure, I had used a fork when we made pasta in
our apartment and I used a knife to mix Tang or instant coffee, but I hadn’t
used the two utensils in conjunction with each other since I was back stateside.
To put this in perspective (yea,
I said it), the last time I had used a knife and fork we thought Jimmy Clausen
and Golden Tate had two more years left at Notre Dame, my parents kitchen was
still under construction (for all I know this could still be the case) and the
Obama administration was still struggling with the issues of health care and a
decision in Afghanistan (oh wait).
Anyways, it was comforting to
hold the knife and fork and eat the Turkey on Thanksgiving the same way that
millions of Americans would later that day.
While we were eating our meal,
the owner of the restaurant went up to a small stage they had inside and
thanked everybody for coming. He said
that they were going to open the stage and let people perform if they wanted to. It was truly turning into a family-style
atmosphere as an incredibly tall man came up on stage with his wife, sister,
and six children and they began to sing songs.
Two of his children played Ode to
Joy on their guitars while people in the restaurant sang along, followed by two
other children playing a song on the piano.
Then, the whole family got on stage and one of the youngest sons read a
passage from scripture before the family started singing a song that they had
assured us the crowd would know. While I
didn’t recognize the song, I did recognize that people around me all seemed to
know the song and the song explicitly mentioned Jesus more times than most
songs do.
I realized that all the people in
the restaurant weren’t just American, but they also all seemed to be
evangelical Christians that were here in China to do some sort of missionary
work.
The young girl brought us coffee
as a new group of people walked up on stage.
Four tween girls took the microphone as background music was piped through
the speakers and I knew exactly what was about to happen. The girls started singing Christian Rock
songs, karaoke-style, to the delight of all the people in attendance.
Now I was in bizzaro-Yanji.
It was like the talent show or
play that the little kids put on for their Grandparents, Aunts, and Uncles
after the holiday meal. This wasn’t just
a restaurant, but rather a large extended family gathering between many of the
Westerners that live in the Yanji area, and even though we didn’t know anybody
here, I was sitting there smiling listening to the girls singing their
Christian Rock and enjoying the Thanksgiving celebration.
Like any other holiday gathering,
this was also the part when the men and women instinctively separate to discuss
the pressing issues of the day. So a few
other men came to our table to talk about Yanji and we shared stories about
what we were doing here. Immediately,
the men guessed that we were the ones working with the “Catholics” because they
had met previous volunteers. We told
them that we were, and talked a little about our school, and then we asked some
questions.
One man was from Alabama and is
living here with his wife and two daughters (who at that moment were on the
stage singing Christian rock). He’s been
living in this part of the world for a while (except when he went back to the
states to work on some sort of movie with Kirk Cameron) running a Technical
University.
Another man told us about how he
rode up to the China-North Korea-Russia border on his motorcycle with one of
our predecessors. Another guy told us
about his six kids that he was raising here.
Another guy told us about the work he did building a goat farm in North
Korea. None of these guys seemed
remotely interested in going back to the United States any time soon.
This really struck me as odd and
ironic.
Here I was, in a far flung corner
of China talking to a group of hard-core Christians straight out of the movie Saved that had created their own little
enclave where nobody finds it odd when another person talks about doing work in
North Korea or not having a desire to go back to America any time soon. Oh, and don’t forget that we were celebrating
the quintessential American holiday (not named July 4th).
After trading phone numbers and
e-mail addresses with these guys, it was time to go, so we got in a cab and
safely made our way back to our apartment on the other side of town. We watched a couple episodes of 30 Rock, I sent an e-mail to some
friends wishing them a Happy Thanksgiving and telling them that Turkey is
literally translated to mean ‘fire chicken’ in Chinese, and then I called my
parents to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving.
Then, before most of America was
awake on this Thanksgiving, I was back in bed because Friday would be another
day of teaching as usual.
