At my school, we have a progressive curriculum. Part of this is having a social studies unit that integrates all of the different subject areas. In second grade, we study "food, shelter, and clothing", and mapping. My kids have been studying food since the beginning of the year.
I was pretty nervous to lead a unit on food, since I have absolutely no idea about the food in Beijing. Where does it come from? What types of food is it? How is it made?
These are the questions that I was supposed to be facilitating the answers to. Riiiight.
Somehow, though, I got through it. We studied the canteen. I brought my kids back when they were cooking and cleaning. They interviewed the workers and thought about their lives without them.
We also studied Farmer's Markets. We took lots of trips there to sketch, talk to workers, and do research. Kelly had them make a model Farmer's Market in my room, which was so adorable I can't even explain.
Today, my students finished our study of food by running a real Farmer's Market out of our classroom. They designed the classroom and their stalls, made signs and maps in art (Also, thanks to Kelly!) and ran the whole thing themselves.
Overall, I ended up buying over $100 USD of fresh fruit, including 200 oranges, 120 bananas, 50 peppers, 80 carrots, 80 apples and 97 bags of sunflower seeds. All of the students and teachers in the school came by to support us, and we sold it all about about 20 oranges.
Most of their parents came in the morning, and seemed really into it. They were haggling with them and trying to get the prices down or to be convinced it was worth it. I think that it really helped with their own understanding of progressive ed.
It was great to see them writing receipts and trying to convince people to buy their "fresh" "juicy" fruits and vegetables. So adorable!
Friday, January 21, 2011
I Do Have a Voice
I mentioned earlier that my bike is in poor condition. The latest development is that the bell has fallen, unreachably, to the center of my handlebars. I discovered this in a tricky spot of traffic when I went to alert the bike next to me with my bell and instead swiped my thumb in the mid-air of where my bell used to be.
In my time riding here, I’ve noticed a difference between the way that Americans and Chinese people use their horns. It seems to me that most Americans use their horns as an extension of their road rage, a louder version of the curses that they’re saying from behind the steering wheel. I always laugh when I walk by a traffic jam in NY, where the streets are ringing mercilessly, as if that will make any difference in the situation, other than making it even more unpleasant.
That is not to say, by any means, that the streets of China are a quieter version of that scenario. In fact, the incessant honking is one of the “rumors” about China that has proven true for me, along with the polluted air. The difference, it seems, is that, while Chinese people may use their horns more than Americans, they also use them more purposefully.
Every “beep” and “honk” is directed at someone in particular, and it can be translated: “I’m here.” “Move faster.” “Don’t back up.” “I’m coming up on your right.”
The past few months I’ve been part of these swarms of traffic, and able to communicate on their level. It’s been a welcome change from the rest of my illiterate and disadvantaged life in China.
Cut to me, bell-less, in the midst of the herd. At first I just swerved around and played extra cautious, seeing as I was once again at a disadvantage. Then I remembered, as I so often have to do, that even though I can’t communicate, I still have a voice.
It’s been 5 days sans bell, which for me now means 5 days of, “Hey!!!”
I’ve tried “Ni hao” which means hello in china, but I find that I get a sharper head turn with a quick blast of “hey!”
Side note about English in China: Because they’re the most common “English” that Chinese-speaking people know. I am getting used to overusing, “Hello”, “Bye-bye”, and “ok.” That’s one more tick I’ll have to grow out of when I’m back in America.
Hopefully I won’t come back slowly enunciating, “bye-bye” and screaming “Hey!” instead of ringing my bell.
In my time riding here, I’ve noticed a difference between the way that Americans and Chinese people use their horns. It seems to me that most Americans use their horns as an extension of their road rage, a louder version of the curses that they’re saying from behind the steering wheel. I always laugh when I walk by a traffic jam in NY, where the streets are ringing mercilessly, as if that will make any difference in the situation, other than making it even more unpleasant.
That is not to say, by any means, that the streets of China are a quieter version of that scenario. In fact, the incessant honking is one of the “rumors” about China that has proven true for me, along with the polluted air. The difference, it seems, is that, while Chinese people may use their horns more than Americans, they also use them more purposefully.
Every “beep” and “honk” is directed at someone in particular, and it can be translated: “I’m here.” “Move faster.” “Don’t back up.” “I’m coming up on your right.”
The past few months I’ve been part of these swarms of traffic, and able to communicate on their level. It’s been a welcome change from the rest of my illiterate and disadvantaged life in China.
Cut to me, bell-less, in the midst of the herd. At first I just swerved around and played extra cautious, seeing as I was once again at a disadvantage. Then I remembered, as I so often have to do, that even though I can’t communicate, I still have a voice.
It’s been 5 days sans bell, which for me now means 5 days of, “Hey!!!”
I’ve tried “Ni hao” which means hello in china, but I find that I get a sharper head turn with a quick blast of “hey!”
Side note about English in China: Because they’re the most common “English” that Chinese-speaking people know. I am getting used to overusing, “Hello”, “Bye-bye”, and “ok.” That’s one more tick I’ll have to grow out of when I’m back in America.
Hopefully I won’t come back slowly enunciating, “bye-bye” and screaming “Hey!” instead of ringing my bell.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Winter Vendors
The fruit and vegetable venders still sell their food on carts outside in January. Lucky for me, because their prices are amazing, and they’re conveniently located right on my street. This makes the extra time standing outside with my gloves off, handling food and money, a worthy endeavor.
Most of the fruit is hard enough to withstand the cold. The apples, oranges, and soursop are out on the stands as in any other month. Some of the more delicate fruit, like papya, are kept in boxes, with just one on “display” on the cart. I tried to buy this, and it took some serious miming for me to understand this winter procedure. (Miming, and being brought to the box of papays at the back of the cart, stowed under a pile of jackets.)
While I was paying a man backed up his card and ran into my parked bicycle, knocking it to the street. Then he got out, looked at his trunk, and looked at me as if to say, “Look what your bike did!” Ok, I could not tell at all if he meant that, or if he was sorry that he hit my bike, but he was obviously upset, and his car did have a small scratch. I picked my bike up, put my hands down up and waved them as if to say, “no problem” and continued shopping. He grumbled, kept looking at me for a while, and then eventually got in his car and drove away. … my bad?
If I didn’t know where the vegetable stands were in good weather, I’d be in rough shape trying to find them now. All of the vegetables are kept wrapped up in heavy blankets. This made my interaction with the vendor considerably more difficult than in warm weather. What was once a procedure of: hold this up, give to her, look on scale for price: became me looking and poking under tightly wrapped blankets, trying to find the vegetables of my choice.
It was the first time in this situation that I really wished I could communicate with words. I really wanted an eggplant. When she held up a white raddish, I wanted to say, “That same shape but purple.” Of course, what I said was, “pu yeo” which means roughly “don’t want” or “no need”, and kept searching. I wasn’t able to find it without ripping up everything, so I left with the groceries that I could dig up.
On a whim, I decided to get some eggs. I’m used to eggs not being in the refrigerator now, (something I’ll have to remember to forget when I’m back in America) but I am not quite used to them not being sold in egg crates. At the big, real grocery stores, they will package 30 eggs with cardboard in something like a carton, but not quite the box of security I’m used to. At the deli in my complex they sell 6 eggs on a plastic tray wrapped in saran wrap. From the vendor I walked away with four eggs in a small plastic bag.
I’m not known for my careful biking, but there is nothing to make you slow for speed bumps like four nearly loose eggs in your misshapen bike basket. For a minute I was reminded of the “baby-think-it-over” program in school, where you were given an egg to protect as if it were a child. I imagined the disappointment on Ms. V’s face if she could see me now.
Most of the fruit is hard enough to withstand the cold. The apples, oranges, and soursop are out on the stands as in any other month. Some of the more delicate fruit, like papya, are kept in boxes, with just one on “display” on the cart. I tried to buy this, and it took some serious miming for me to understand this winter procedure. (Miming, and being brought to the box of papays at the back of the cart, stowed under a pile of jackets.)
While I was paying a man backed up his card and ran into my parked bicycle, knocking it to the street. Then he got out, looked at his trunk, and looked at me as if to say, “Look what your bike did!” Ok, I could not tell at all if he meant that, or if he was sorry that he hit my bike, but he was obviously upset, and his car did have a small scratch. I picked my bike up, put my hands down up and waved them as if to say, “no problem” and continued shopping. He grumbled, kept looking at me for a while, and then eventually got in his car and drove away. … my bad?
If I didn’t know where the vegetable stands were in good weather, I’d be in rough shape trying to find them now. All of the vegetables are kept wrapped up in heavy blankets. This made my interaction with the vendor considerably more difficult than in warm weather. What was once a procedure of: hold this up, give to her, look on scale for price: became me looking and poking under tightly wrapped blankets, trying to find the vegetables of my choice.
It was the first time in this situation that I really wished I could communicate with words. I really wanted an eggplant. When she held up a white raddish, I wanted to say, “That same shape but purple.” Of course, what I said was, “pu yeo” which means roughly “don’t want” or “no need”, and kept searching. I wasn’t able to find it without ripping up everything, so I left with the groceries that I could dig up.
On a whim, I decided to get some eggs. I’m used to eggs not being in the refrigerator now, (something I’ll have to remember to forget when I’m back in America) but I am not quite used to them not being sold in egg crates. At the big, real grocery stores, they will package 30 eggs with cardboard in something like a carton, but not quite the box of security I’m used to. At the deli in my complex they sell 6 eggs on a plastic tray wrapped in saran wrap. From the vendor I walked away with four eggs in a small plastic bag.
I’m not known for my careful biking, but there is nothing to make you slow for speed bumps like four nearly loose eggs in your misshapen bike basket. For a minute I was reminded of the “baby-think-it-over” program in school, where you were given an egg to protect as if it were a child. I imagined the disappointment on Ms. V’s face if she could see me now.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Numb to Understanding
Getting used to: No TP
Not used to yet: -10 degrees Celsius in the bathroom
There is never any toilet paper in the bathrooms here. I’ve become accustomed to carrying packets of tissues everywhere I go. This is an especially easy habit to keep in winter, when I have a perpetual cold.
At my school bathroom there are dispensers in the stalls (which were taken away, and then rigorously fought for and reinstated by my director.) At 3 p.m. on the dot, however, these are always empty. This is true even though we have a gaggle of only Chinese-speaking janitorial staff whose “office” as far as I can tell is the space on the side of the bathroom.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about these women. I appreciate that they keep my classroom clean and help me out even though all I can say to them is “xier xier” (thank you) and eyebrows up and hand palm up to signal “take one of these chocolates.” Nevertheless, I am curious about their cleaning practices.
I don’t know if I’ll ever adjust to their insistence on opening the window in the bathroom. It is literally freezing outside, and every morning when I go into the bathroom there is a giant window that’s been left open. I feel like I’m camping when I have to go in the morning.
The Chinese have a belief in changing the air. Even in the colder days of fall and early winter, my assistant said that she will open her windows when she leaves the house to “clean the air” in the apartment. In that season I could humor that, if not fully understand. In the dead of winter, it is simply too cold to understand.
Not used to yet: -10 degrees Celsius in the bathroom
There is never any toilet paper in the bathrooms here. I’ve become accustomed to carrying packets of tissues everywhere I go. This is an especially easy habit to keep in winter, when I have a perpetual cold.
At my school bathroom there are dispensers in the stalls (which were taken away, and then rigorously fought for and reinstated by my director.) At 3 p.m. on the dot, however, these are always empty. This is true even though we have a gaggle of only Chinese-speaking janitorial staff whose “office” as far as I can tell is the space on the side of the bathroom.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about these women. I appreciate that they keep my classroom clean and help me out even though all I can say to them is “xier xier” (thank you) and eyebrows up and hand palm up to signal “take one of these chocolates.” Nevertheless, I am curious about their cleaning practices.
I don’t know if I’ll ever adjust to their insistence on opening the window in the bathroom. It is literally freezing outside, and every morning when I go into the bathroom there is a giant window that’s been left open. I feel like I’m camping when I have to go in the morning.
The Chinese have a belief in changing the air. Even in the colder days of fall and early winter, my assistant said that she will open her windows when she leaves the house to “clean the air” in the apartment. In that season I could humor that, if not fully understand. In the dead of winter, it is simply too cold to understand.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Perspective
I have been meaning to write up about a conversation that I had with my kids just before winter break. In lieu of a costume for their holiday performance (where they sang an adorable rendition of “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth”), the class voted on wearing all white shirts. The holiday performance was from 5-9 on the Thursday before winter break. The kids stayed with us after school, we fed them dinner, and then sat with us until the end of the show. Aka, it was the longest school day of my life, and now I had a room full of children in shirts that had to stay white through two meals. (Let it never be said that teachers don’t earn their vacation time.)
When we were waiting to go into the auditorium, a group of my kids came up to me and, giggling, said, “Rebecca, you’re not wearing white.” It was true, I had opted out of matching my class, and trying to keep my own shirt unstained for a 13.5 hour work day. Then they added, “And you skin’s not even white!”
I hadn’t expected that. I smiled and nodded, as if, of course, I knew this was true. (Those of you who know me know that I don’t identify as “white”, but I am used to others perceiving this. Especially in China I’ve gotten used to exclamations of, “Oh really? You’re father is Chinese?? You don’t look it at all, at allllll.”)
After waiting the obligatory seconds pass, I asked my kids, “What color is my skin?” They looked at me, squinted and tilting their heads to the side.
“Peach,” one boy decided, and the others nodded in agreement.
“Oh yes,” I nodded. “What color is your skin?”
They all looked right at me, very serious. “White,” a few of them said in unison.
I was so interested in this response. What does one say in this situation, when you are half way around the world, where little Chinese children think that they are white and I am peach? I have to say, their descriptions are much more logical.
Is it my job to say, well, when you grow up and go to college in America, Caucasians will think they are white and that you are yellow? I’m guessing not, but I couldn’t help but think that one day each of these kids will grow up and find that out one day, and how strange it will feel. I remember when I first moved to New York at 18, and was considered white for the first time in my life. How strange it felt that everyone around me seemed to be on the same page, even though I was clueless.
I said nothing else that day, mostly because it was the longest work day ever and I was caught so off guard. The conversation has stuck with me, though, and serves as another reminder: I’m not in NY anymore…
When we were waiting to go into the auditorium, a group of my kids came up to me and, giggling, said, “Rebecca, you’re not wearing white.” It was true, I had opted out of matching my class, and trying to keep my own shirt unstained for a 13.5 hour work day. Then they added, “And you skin’s not even white!”
I hadn’t expected that. I smiled and nodded, as if, of course, I knew this was true. (Those of you who know me know that I don’t identify as “white”, but I am used to others perceiving this. Especially in China I’ve gotten used to exclamations of, “Oh really? You’re father is Chinese?? You don’t look it at all, at allllll.”)
After waiting the obligatory seconds pass, I asked my kids, “What color is my skin?” They looked at me, squinted and tilting their heads to the side.
“Peach,” one boy decided, and the others nodded in agreement.
“Oh yes,” I nodded. “What color is your skin?”
They all looked right at me, very serious. “White,” a few of them said in unison.
I was so interested in this response. What does one say in this situation, when you are half way around the world, where little Chinese children think that they are white and I am peach? I have to say, their descriptions are much more logical.
Is it my job to say, well, when you grow up and go to college in America, Caucasians will think they are white and that you are yellow? I’m guessing not, but I couldn’t help but think that one day each of these kids will grow up and find that out one day, and how strange it will feel. I remember when I first moved to New York at 18, and was considered white for the first time in my life. How strange it felt that everyone around me seemed to be on the same page, even though I was clueless.
I said nothing else that day, mostly because it was the longest work day ever and I was caught so off guard. The conversation has stuck with me, though, and serves as another reminder: I’m not in NY anymore…
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
January Updates
It’s January! Here are some updates about my current state in Beijing.
What I wear before I leave the house for the bike to work:
Tights, leggings, jeans, two thin pairs of socks, one thick pair of socks, boots. T-shirt, work shirt, fingerless gloves to my elbow, scarf, long downy winter coat, fleece-lined mittens. fleece hat, knit hat, SARS mask.
With this gear, I can make it through the 20 min. bike ride, but I can’t say I’m not still cold.
(Ok, I was resistant to the face mask at first. Aside from the obvious aesthetics, it seemed difficult to breathe under that thing. Thanks to the pollution in Beijing, which has been officially termed “crazy bad” – not even a joke- it’s really dangerous to breathe through your mouth. Thanks to the unbelievable cold, my nose is a faucet the moment I step outside. Enter, SARS mask, the solution to my problems. It doesn’t hurt, either, that I found a really soft cloth one that’s pink and
flowery.)
Christmas lights: still up.
Getting used to: drinking tea more than coffee
More used to than American: money.
In the airport I changed some RMB to USD, because China no longer carries Pesos (they must be pissed at the Philippines for some reason). Holding the dark green bills, all the same size, was a really strange feeling for me, which, as an American, was a really strange feeling for me.
Worst part of January: the wind.
It’s so strong that when it blows right at me I actually can’t go forward. I call it treadmill biking. (Those of you who know how much I love the gym can guess how fun this really is for me.) Every morning I have to dig poor Finding Flying Pigeon out of a mountain of bikes 20 feet from where I left her. Her front wire basket has been officially molded into a triangle, with a number of holes on the bottom.
Work update: Farmer’s Market
I’m really loving my job these days. I’m down to 11 kids now, with another one leaving at the end of January. I hear that it’s common for classes to change in International school, because the parents are changing countries. One kid switched to a closer school because he was commuting 1.5 hours from the center of the city. I miss him, but he’s too young for that commute. My girl leaving at the end of the month is going to America to live with her father. I am sad to see her go, but I’m happy for her. I’ll keep the blog posted if my plan to sneak myself into her suitcase is a success.
We’re finishing our study of food by running a Farmer’s Market from our classroom. It’s our reading, writing, math, social studies, art…it’s everything. It’s great to be a part of this project, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. A lot of times, even in progressive ed, teachers pretend to take student input and shape it to how it’s supposed to be done. Over here, I really don’t know what fruits and veggies we should sell, or how best to advertise to our customers, so my kids are really running it themselves!
What I wear before I leave the house for the bike to work:
Tights, leggings, jeans, two thin pairs of socks, one thick pair of socks, boots. T-shirt, work shirt, fingerless gloves to my elbow, scarf, long downy winter coat, fleece-lined mittens. fleece hat, knit hat, SARS mask.
With this gear, I can make it through the 20 min. bike ride, but I can’t say I’m not still cold.
(Ok, I was resistant to the face mask at first. Aside from the obvious aesthetics, it seemed difficult to breathe under that thing. Thanks to the pollution in Beijing, which has been officially termed “crazy bad” – not even a joke- it’s really dangerous to breathe through your mouth. Thanks to the unbelievable cold, my nose is a faucet the moment I step outside. Enter, SARS mask, the solution to my problems. It doesn’t hurt, either, that I found a really soft cloth one that’s pink and
flowery.)
Christmas lights: still up.
Getting used to: drinking tea more than coffee
More used to than American: money.
In the airport I changed some RMB to USD, because China no longer carries Pesos (they must be pissed at the Philippines for some reason). Holding the dark green bills, all the same size, was a really strange feeling for me, which, as an American, was a really strange feeling for me.
Worst part of January: the wind.
It’s so strong that when it blows right at me I actually can’t go forward. I call it treadmill biking. (Those of you who know how much I love the gym can guess how fun this really is for me.) Every morning I have to dig poor Finding Flying Pigeon out of a mountain of bikes 20 feet from where I left her. Her front wire basket has been officially molded into a triangle, with a number of holes on the bottom.
Work update: Farmer’s Market
I’m really loving my job these days. I’m down to 11 kids now, with another one leaving at the end of January. I hear that it’s common for classes to change in International school, because the parents are changing countries. One kid switched to a closer school because he was commuting 1.5 hours from the center of the city. I miss him, but he’s too young for that commute. My girl leaving at the end of the month is going to America to live with her father. I am sad to see her go, but I’m happy for her. I’ll keep the blog posted if my plan to sneak myself into her suitcase is a success.
We’re finishing our study of food by running a Farmer’s Market from our classroom. It’s our reading, writing, math, social studies, art…it’s everything. It’s great to be a part of this project, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. A lot of times, even in progressive ed, teachers pretend to take student input and shape it to how it’s supposed to be done. Over here, I really don’t know what fruits and veggies we should sell, or how best to advertise to our customers, so my kids are really running it themselves!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Goodbye 2010!
On New Year’s Eve we took full advantage of the Ocean Park, visiting the Aquarium, Jellies, Sea Lion Show, and Musical Fountain Light Show. I’d seen the fountain show at the Bellagio in Vegas, which I mistakenly used as a reference. To be fair, I should have known that I was in for a different kind of show when Kelly and I were the only people in the audience between the ages of 40 and 4, and the only couple present without a fetus. The water sprays, spurts of fire and fireworks were actually impressive, but I could have done without the breaks for rapping and dancing starfish, projections of Disney characters onto water sprays, and ballet-renditions of lion fish falling in love.
At night we watched the fireworks over the water from “Club H20”, the lounge/bar of the hotel. The wine was delicious (I’d forgotten what non-Greatwall wine tasted like!) and the night outside was a wonderfully starry sight. Me and Kelly recounted all that we could of 2010, thinking of “best __(new food/month/season/trip)___” and made resolutions for the new year. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago we were on Avenue D drinking someone’s Patron and thinking about moving to China.
Each part of our trip to the Philippines was exactly what I needed, from family to resort, to beach, to Jellyfish. I have to say though, I’m starting to seriously wonder if me and Kelly are the only people like us anywhere. (Or at least on this side of the world.) That’s not even just to say we’re the only lesbians, as I’m sure I’ve made that point before. But on this trip, we were the only mid-20’s girls traveling. In each of our four locations, we were mostly with families, even young families, with the occasional straight couple under 40. Many, many people asked us if we were sisters.
Unfortunately, the questions of me and Kelly being related is not new to us. In America I’ve been asked if we were cousins, and even told as a “compliment” that we “look so much like!” But sisters is a whole new level. Kelly said that it’s just their way to wrap their heads around two women traveling alone during the holidays. That I guess I can understand, not that I find it more settling.
I’m back and had my first day of work on January 4th! (We had a day and a half to settle back before going to work.) My kids were so much smaller than I remembered, and so darling. They actually got a positive report from a special! It’s a whole new year!
At night we watched the fireworks over the water from “Club H20”, the lounge/bar of the hotel. The wine was delicious (I’d forgotten what non-Greatwall wine tasted like!) and the night outside was a wonderfully starry sight. Me and Kelly recounted all that we could of 2010, thinking of “best __(new food/month/season/trip)___” and made resolutions for the new year. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago we were on Avenue D drinking someone’s Patron and thinking about moving to China.
Each part of our trip to the Philippines was exactly what I needed, from family to resort, to beach, to Jellyfish. I have to say though, I’m starting to seriously wonder if me and Kelly are the only people like us anywhere. (Or at least on this side of the world.) That’s not even just to say we’re the only lesbians, as I’m sure I’ve made that point before. But on this trip, we were the only mid-20’s girls traveling. In each of our four locations, we were mostly with families, even young families, with the occasional straight couple under 40. Many, many people asked us if we were sisters.
Unfortunately, the questions of me and Kelly being related is not new to us. In America I’ve been asked if we were cousins, and even told as a “compliment” that we “look so much like!” But sisters is a whole new level. Kelly said that it’s just their way to wrap their heads around two women traveling alone during the holidays. That I guess I can understand, not that I find it more settling.
I’m back and had my first day of work on January 4th! (We had a day and a half to settle back before going to work.) My kids were so much smaller than I remembered, and so darling. They actually got a positive report from a special! It’s a whole new year!
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