Cloudy in Beijing Blogging about my time in China

First day teaching: What a clusterfuck

I remember my brain hurting a little afterward. Like it had been pressed too hard. With the rain pouring outside, I sat hunched on the bus waiting to head back to my apartment. A look of almost disbelief hanged on my face.

I had just left what was quite possibly the most painfully embarrassing situation I’ve ever gone through. I kept thinking, “Did that really just happen?” My mind was too stunned and perhaps to dejected to answer.

Today was my first time ever teaching a class before. God I sucked.

The hours before I taught my first class I felt fairly sure of myself. I had rehearsed several times, introducing myself over and over to an imaginary class of smiling and attentive Chinese students. I would ask questions to my pretend students, and they would gleefully answer each one. I’d have them role-play and partner with each other, and they’d also be eager to comply, obediently practicing their English skills with their classmates. I had rehearsed so much, weeding out any instructive fumbles, that I felt exhausted at one point, needing to lie down on my bed and catch my breath. If imaginary students were such a labor, what would the real thing do to me?

“Oh shit…” I said to myself.

My chief worry was screwing up. I’d never taught in my life before. I had done some tutoring with my cousin, but even that had gone poorly at times; I remember my cousin lazily propping up his head with a hand, his face sagging with boredom, as I tried to teach him lessons about astronomy. I myself am a rather shy and quiet person at times. Not the most ideal candidate for such a job. Yes, a debacle waiting to happen perhaps. But my optimism would not let my hopes for the class to shrivel and die off. “Maybe you have a knack for this,” it said with a smile. “It’ll be challenging, but a good learning experience for you.” I had my online teaching certificate, a few books, and a pumped up self-belief. Yea, I know an online teaching certificate.

I continued rehearsing in my study, gaining confidence each time I practiced my lines. I became excited. Before becoming a journalist, I had a slight interest in being a teacher. Making a difference, that was noble payoff that had made it a career possibility before journalism shoved it off to the side. I guess this would be my chance to make that difference, although I really had no idea what to expect.

I did have a few ideas of what the outcome might be, like pieces to a puzzle I struggled to imagine. All I knew was that I was teaching undegrads, albeit I wasn’t sure what year; sophomore, freshman? They were supposed to have about 10 years of English language instruction. But a fellow teacher gave me a bit of advice from her past experiences: expect a mix bag of students, some with great English, others not so much. Some students even might have never spoken a word English, aside from the casual Hello, how are you?

If that was the case, that’d make beginning introductions very awkward, I pointedly said. From my experiences, The introduction was the staple of the first day of every class. She did say one positive was the fact that I was foreigner, something that help keep up interest in the class. Most students think it a nice novelty that they have a foreign teacher, never having had one before.

“Let’s hope the novelty doesn’t ware off,” I said.

There was one piece of the puzzle that did worry me. From my experiences, it’s best to learn a new language by constantly using it. Well, as an English instructor at the school, I’d teach a total of 14 classes. Except that I’d only see each class once every two weeks. For only two hours. That’s very little instruction time, and not the most conducive to learning, at least according to my experiences.

“I hope that works out,” another fellow teacher said to me, an uncomfortable smiling coming over his face. The feeling was mutual.

We had received our textbooks just one day before the start of class. Not very much prep time. But after looking though the textbook, I thought to myself, this can be done. After several hours I created my lesson plan. It would revolve around the first chapter of our text book, the topic being sports. 30 students, all being taught about sports. With my notes written and ready in my bag, I felt ready as I headed off to my classroom. My self doubts were effectively buried. My optimism was rooting me on.

I arrived to my class, dressed fairly formally: slacks and button up dress shirt, the ol’ blue one I’d love to wear at my former job as a journalist. I was 24, likely not much older than my students. I needed some separation from me and my students. But I wanted to give a good impression, one full of energy and exuberance, that’d hopefully rub off on to the students. On my notes I had scribbled, “BIG SMILE!”

As I stood at the front of the classroom, my first students came trickling in, handfuls coming in through the door and sitting behind rows of desks, each equipped with headphones. I’d prefer if we’d all could sit in circle together, but this setup would just have to do. Eventually around 30 students had arrived in my class. I, a bit shyly, raised my head looking at my first round of students, trying to count their numbers.

Then a Chinese faculty member came through, and stood next to me and my desk at the front of the class. I asked him if the audio listening materials were working and he said yes. “Good,” I thought. My biggest worry had been the audio listening materials and making sure they worked. A moment later the faculty member told me to write down how many students I had in my class on a University notepad that he provided. I thought I’d just wait until all my students showed up. 30 maybe 35 student is what I’d put. The faculty member didn’t want to wait. He asked one of the students in Chinese, how many students were in this class.

“Wu si qi” one of the students said. 57.

Um, excuse me. That was my first thought. The faculty member then told me to write the number on the notepad. Still reeling a bit from what was just said to me, I put down 57 on the pad and handed it off to him. He then left like nothing had just happened.

A few minutes I realized yes, that was true. For my first class I’d teach 57 students, the last four coming in as the bell rang. No way in hell am I going to remember all those names. “Okay” I quietly muttered to myself, forcing a smile. There were a lot of forced smiles on that day.

It started off well. “Hello class, how are you doing!” I said it with much energy and exuberance, just the way I wanted. Unfortunately, the excitement didn’t rub off. At all. When I said it, it was like I startled them almost. No one said a word. No one even gave a head nod. I asked again, “How is everyone doing.” Same: nothing, not even a whisper, a raised hand, or a nudge of the head. This is not good, I thought. I could sense a collective “huh?” from the class.

These students were quiet, absolutely quiet. I’d ask for a volunteer. Nothing. I’d ask a question. “Do you understand” Not even a yes or no. Just say “Yes” It’s that easy. Come on! Introductions, the reliable staple of all first days of class, even failed. Having the students introduce themselves was filled with their own problems. First, way too many students in the class. Second, none of the students had any English names. I remember trying to pronounce one of their Chinese names, only to draw laughter from the rest of the class as I apparently misspoke it. Third, the students spoke so softly, in a subdued tone, no one else in the class could hear them. Fifth, apparently all the students know each other already, so it’s kind of pointless. God, the list goes on. After I tried introducing about 12 different students, I moved on, the remainder of class, losing attention and starting their own whispered conversations.

Yea, I missed my imaginary students. Part of running a successful language class was having a responsive class body. Instead there was no reciprocation. It was me talking to a roomful of students, unsure if they were listening at all. My questions seemed to be falling on deaf ears. There would be no one willing to be a volunteer in this class. Eventually I got a few hushed answers from some of my questions, but no one dared to raise up their hand, and speak loud enough so that everyone could hear. Part of me just wanted to physically grab a hold of them and shake them into saying something. I remember thinking later that at least teaching a group of rowdy students, you’d get some response, even if it was some snide comment. This was just agonizingly quiet.

Quickly I realized I basically had to do “grab” my students. I’d make my own volunteers, motioning individual students to come to the front of the class. Everytime, they seemed scared that I was asking them to come and speak. One girl even refused, with a bright smile, saying “No, I can’t.” her head just shaking.

We did role-playing, one person asking another question, the usual. But it became apparent, that there English skills were not quite what I imagined. They seem to struggle to say even the most basic things. I remember asking a student “How they were doing,” instead they told me what their favorite sport was, the topic we were just on. The lessons were not effective, the energy in the room sapped by my students inert demeanors. I looked at my watch. An hour left? I was running out of material. Was I connecting with anyone? This looked really bad.

We did some listening activities. I was frankly tired of hearing my oral instructions to the class echo without a response. I could go on and on, the crappiness of the day unending. I tried assigning homework, asking the students to start keeping a journal, but I’m not entirely sure they understood that; another “huh?” expression coming over their faces as I gave them the assignment. The last ten minutes I really struggled to find something to continue talking about, groping in my mind for an extra, extra contingency plan. But as this all unraveled, I remembered something from a conversation I had back home in Oregon. Only now did I fully understand what that conversation was about.

Before taking this job, I had interviewed for another one for a university in Beijing. The professor, who conducted the interview, was a very bright person. He was especially curious about myself and what I wished to accomplish. His point, however, was that he told me that I wasn’t really qualified for the job, teaching experience being the main reason.

“The Chinese education system has a lot of problems,” he said. “It’s like they are shooting themselves in the foot. The students lack complete imagination at times. They’ve been drilled to only take tests. So we need teachers with the energy, enough energy to change that, to help them re-learn.”

Upon hearing this I realized this was my first glance into the world of Chinese education. I took the professor’s thoughts to heart, and remembered it as I prepped for my teaching experience in Xi’an. I expected to encounter students in the same way the professor had described: respectful, but quiet, and seemingly disengaged from learning. The thing is hearing about something, and actually experiencing it are totally different. I had hoped my energy would shake the foundations of my students’ bashfulness, but it was a no-go. A smaller group of students, yes I could see it succeeding. But with a class the size of a lecture, I don’t know.

It felt so good, when I heard the bell ring. “Thank you for coming to my class. I hope you have a great day” were my last words to my students. I walked to my teachers’ desk and exhaled. Surprisingly, about half of the students clapped. I felt like the worst teacher in the world — “Are you kidding me?"

As this happened though, I didn’t feel too bad about myself. I was exhausted, and part of me thought, I have to do this again? But the majority thought, okay, you tried your best. It didn’t work out that well, but it’s not like you were thinking it was going to be easy in the first place. I didn’t even really feel like I screwed up. I had tried doing everything I could, and it didn’t work this time. It was a pretty tough crowd. I would just have to keep trying, improving on my teaching skills. But what I was most happy with was that my confidence or optimism didn’t fail me. The self doubt however managed spill out in my psyche as I taught. “This has clusterfuck written all over it.” Yet I had absolutely no problems in speaking to my students. I spoke loudly and confidently, like I was the leader, an outspoken one too. In fact, I actually acted like a completely different person, not the reserved and quiet journalist I had been while in the States.

As the students were filing out, one asked me if I wanted to play basketball in the future, which I gladly said yes. And another told me something that was very helpful. His spoken English needed lots of work. But in Chinese, he told me that he basically could understand me during class. However, he worried that a lot of other students couldn’t, and that I should try using Chinese when teaching. That was some good advice.

Yea, I guess the first class is always tough. Indeed, today was a clusterfuck, but a good one, if that makes any sense.