This was another Lily story – the one who had me teach the dying woman. This time she had me teach swimming in English.
Lilly was always late so you either: sat waiting uncomfortably outside her office smiling at your prospective student, or, stood around on the street somewhere, time already past appointment, waiting for her to take you to a student another half-an-hour away. On this occasion it was the latter.
“It is a swimming pool,” I said as we pulled up. “So the kid’s mother works here?”
“Yes,” she replied.
Lilly paid the entry fee and a young mother came to greet us with her eight-year old son.
I love this country, I thought to myself: kid can’t even be assed to change out of his swimming trunks.
“So what size for shorts?” asked Lilly. “Try on a hat.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You can teach swimming, yes?” But her tone said he didn’t care either way. “His mother say, he want learn to swim, but doesn’t like study English. This way if he wants to swim, he must - ”
“What is his level of English?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think he knows a little.”
Yes, it seemed it had only occurred to me that urgent, life-or-death instructions should be shouted using a language he understood.
“You don’t disappoint,” I told Lilly.
The kid started tugging my arm, smiling and expectant. It was a super hot day and the water looked really inviting. I was actually I good swimmer so I figured I could at least make sure he didn’t drown. I went to get changed and put on a swimming cap. This was an odd cultural point: in Taiwan it was okay, perhaps mandatory, to spit and empty the contents of your nose in the water at the end of every length, width or dive, but letting your recently shampooed hair loose was a public health crime
One hour later and the boy was still alive and I had actually enjoyed myself.
The English aspect was problematic: if the kid ever found himself hanging round swimming pools in an English speaking country, then the phrases: ‘kick your legs’, ‘breath’ and ‘move your arms’ from today’s lesson would be invaluable.
I was actually looking forward to the next lesson but it was not to be: the mother wanted her son to learn to swim with American English.
Showing posts with label Taiwan teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Taiwan teaching. Show all posts
Monday, August 10, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The short-lived Indian British English school II
At the British Indian English school, I had hoped they would give up asking for my teaching certificate, but, unfortunately, they didn’t - and after putting it off for a while it reached a crisis point. It was a pity because I had taken a liking to my role as an ambassador for British education – so much so that I tried to think of a way out of things.
“Sanjeet, I need to talk to you,” I said. “I’m gutted, that school I went to in Egypt was a fake. I am really sorry.”
I handed over a letter from Cambridge Schools Certification Organization confirming that the Al-Fayed school of English was indeed a fake. The lady I emailed had been most sympathetic, even giving me a helpful warning about unscrupulous schools.
“Ah, this is from Sarah Richardson, I know her…Well, anyway, what are we going to do now? I think we keep this between for the moment, but I would like you to do a TEFL at some later juncture,” he said. “I’ll let you into a little secret: I have never set foot in England. Just between us of course...”
That explained his positive view of race relations in the UK, I thought.
I may have got away with the teaching certificate but they were still after a copy of my M.A. which also didn’t exist – and I guessed was a bullshit bridge too far. However, other events took over before I was found out.
“We can’t teach here for a while. Now we are going to a coffee shop for class,” said Sanjeet. Bad timing meant classes had started before they had got their Bushiban (private school) license. Ordinarily not a problem – the police were not particularly vigorous in their pursuit of illegal schools – unless someone wanted you closed down. Sanjeet’s old company did, and the police had reluctantly dragged themselves over.
It then got more ridiculous: Two days later, at incredible expense to the owner of the school, they were now teaching in the conference rooms of a five star hotel. The boss knew the owner of the hotel and the staff had been told not to tell anyone.
…Then just another five days later I was off home half way through class, my position in the high echelons of the English teaching profession short lived. Sanjay’s old school had caught up with him, and he was on the five o’clock flight to Rome, all expenses paid. A few hours earlier, the chief of police had called the boss – it was the courteous thing to do as the boss knew everyone – to say the police were on the way, and if they found Sanjay then they would have to expel him, never to return. If he left the country he could lie low for a week or two and then come back.
A week or so later the owner called all the teachers together to explain what had happened and when the school would open again. He had his rich guy line: As usual he talked about what a nice guy he was, and he wasn’t doing this to earn money, but because his wife was interested in setting up the school and contributing something back to society. He said he would pay them this month’s salary regardless – I had already started working somewhere else.
They still wanted me to work at the school but I figured there was no need to continue the lie. “I am sorry. I have had a change of plan and I have to go back to England,” I said. It would be strange going back to working in dark, second division schools and kindergartens in Taipei County where no questions were asked, when I had managed to work in a spanking new school in the center of town in my suit. Still I had proved to myself the only difference between me and the teachers in these schools was the piece of paper.
“Sanjeet, I need to talk to you,” I said. “I’m gutted, that school I went to in Egypt was a fake. I am really sorry.”
I handed over a letter from Cambridge Schools Certification Organization confirming that the Al-Fayed school of English was indeed a fake. The lady I emailed had been most sympathetic, even giving me a helpful warning about unscrupulous schools.
“Ah, this is from Sarah Richardson, I know her…Well, anyway, what are we going to do now? I think we keep this between for the moment, but I would like you to do a TEFL at some later juncture,” he said. “I’ll let you into a little secret: I have never set foot in England. Just between us of course...”
That explained his positive view of race relations in the UK, I thought.
I may have got away with the teaching certificate but they were still after a copy of my M.A. which also didn’t exist – and I guessed was a bullshit bridge too far. However, other events took over before I was found out.
“We can’t teach here for a while. Now we are going to a coffee shop for class,” said Sanjeet. Bad timing meant classes had started before they had got their Bushiban (private school) license. Ordinarily not a problem – the police were not particularly vigorous in their pursuit of illegal schools – unless someone wanted you closed down. Sanjeet’s old company did, and the police had reluctantly dragged themselves over.
It then got more ridiculous: Two days later, at incredible expense to the owner of the school, they were now teaching in the conference rooms of a five star hotel. The boss knew the owner of the hotel and the staff had been told not to tell anyone.
…Then just another five days later I was off home half way through class, my position in the high echelons of the English teaching profession short lived. Sanjay’s old school had caught up with him, and he was on the five o’clock flight to Rome, all expenses paid. A few hours earlier, the chief of police had called the boss – it was the courteous thing to do as the boss knew everyone – to say the police were on the way, and if they found Sanjay then they would have to expel him, never to return. If he left the country he could lie low for a week or two and then come back.
A week or so later the owner called all the teachers together to explain what had happened and when the school would open again. He had his rich guy line: As usual he talked about what a nice guy he was, and he wasn’t doing this to earn money, but because his wife was interested in setting up the school and contributing something back to society. He said he would pay them this month’s salary regardless – I had already started working somewhere else.
They still wanted me to work at the school but I figured there was no need to continue the lie. “I am sorry. I have had a change of plan and I have to go back to England,” I said. It would be strange going back to working in dark, second division schools and kindergartens in Taipei County where no questions were asked, when I had managed to work in a spanking new school in the center of town in my suit. Still I had proved to myself the only difference between me and the teachers in these schools was the piece of paper.
The short-lived Indian British English school I
“There is something classy about the English: the accent, mannerisms – not like those common yanks. England has tradition, those Americans just copy everything... I had some applications from Americans…Well qualified a lot of them, but straight in the rubbish. I am not going to employ any of them. We British should stick together,” said Sanjeet a very posh British Indian, who was opening a new school specializing in British English. They wrote on the advert that they needed someone with an teaching certificate and an M.A. – which I didn’t have - but the advert clearly said only those with British English need apply, and this was the first ad I had ever seen like that so I just had to come along.
“Indeed,” I replied conflicted: I liked the Britain is great bit, but wanted to tell him off for being an elitist snob.
“I can tell if someone has had a good education. It doesn’t matter if he/she has no teaching experience. It is…that knowledge of the grammar and the influence from good teachers, that schooling in how to learn…I know they will put up a good show. They will do themselves proud.”
I walked out of the door feelings mean, unsociable having just given him a handshake, the guy at least deserved a few bars of God save the Queen or England’s green and pleasant land. I chalked up the interview to experience and went for some kindergarten ones elsewhere.
The next week, after promising to get my teaching certificate and masters sent out from England I had taken up my position as principal teacher of the British culture and Heritage English Program, preparing the children of the rich for the playing fields of Eton.
Even though I possibly couldn’t last in the school without a teaching certificate I wanted to do the job just because it was the first place I had come across as unashamedly British. The walls of the school were covered with posters for England’s finest public and private schools, while the sounds of St. Somebody’s Hallowed School Choir playing in the background.
“Wonderful, isn’t it. Stirs the soul,” said Sanjeet. “I want you to encourage them to come in here to use the tapes and watch the videos.”
He continued, “Bet you miss all that, eh? - School, discipline, and the uniform...”
“Absolutely, mate,” I said while thinking of my comprehensive.
“Indeed,” I replied conflicted: I liked the Britain is great bit, but wanted to tell him off for being an elitist snob.
“I can tell if someone has had a good education. It doesn’t matter if he/she has no teaching experience. It is…that knowledge of the grammar and the influence from good teachers, that schooling in how to learn…I know they will put up a good show. They will do themselves proud.”
I walked out of the door feelings mean, unsociable having just given him a handshake, the guy at least deserved a few bars of God save the Queen or England’s green and pleasant land. I chalked up the interview to experience and went for some kindergarten ones elsewhere.
The next week, after promising to get my teaching certificate and masters sent out from England I had taken up my position as principal teacher of the British culture and Heritage English Program, preparing the children of the rich for the playing fields of Eton.
Even though I possibly couldn’t last in the school without a teaching certificate I wanted to do the job just because it was the first place I had come across as unashamedly British. The walls of the school were covered with posters for England’s finest public and private schools, while the sounds of St. Somebody’s Hallowed School Choir playing in the background.
“Wonderful, isn’t it. Stirs the soul,” said Sanjeet. “I want you to encourage them to come in here to use the tapes and watch the videos.”
He continued, “Bet you miss all that, eh? - School, discipline, and the uniform...”
“Absolutely, mate,” I said while thinking of my comprehensive.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Taiwan English teaching III: Not as straightforward as it seemed
Teaching in Taiwan wasn't as straightforward as it might seem. Going to teach wasn’t just a matter of finding a school and going to work nine-to-five, there were lots of different things to think about: kids, adults, and age-groups among others. Most of these private schools were designed for kids from seven to sixteen taking over once the local government schools finished at around 4 pm; therefore, if you wanted to teach at these schools your likely hours were from 4.30 to 8.30 everyday – and Wednesday and Saturday from 2pm to 8pm because on these days government schools finished earlier. Now if you wanted to teach nine-to-five the only way was Kindergarten which meant teaching kids from three to seven years old. If you wanted to teach adults it was mornings from nine-to-twelve (housewives) and then evenings from seven-to-ten when people got off work.
Most non-teachers preferred to teach adults because they didn’t want to deal with the shouting and screaming, but the problem of adults were the hours weren't so stable.
Now who to work for? The big chains of English schools had there benefits: training, work visa, and organization, but there drawbacks: designed to deal with the just arrived foreigner they paid less, had more homework to mark and preparation to do for class. If you went to one of the smaller chains or independent schools, they might not: have anyone who can speak good English on staff and a clear curriculum, but you might be able to squeeze an extra hundred an hour out of them and they wouldn’t expect preparation.
Number of hours: As i said the kindergartens were the only ones who were offering a solid 40 hours a week. All the private schools, would expect you to teach a minimum of 20 hours a week for them in order to get you a work visa – but would not guarantee to give you 20 hours a week. Even if all was well at the school and you were good they still didn’t like to give you more than twenty-five hours a week, telling you that was enough because you had to prepare – It was also good for them to have more teachers on staff, hungry and a little desperate. Adult teaching schools usually had even less hours because adults were sporadic and uncommitted.
What to do? Most people had a contract at one of these private schools and then went and found an illegal job at a small school somewhere else.
The only other alternative was to find private students. Private students weren’t students who wanted to meet in dark alleys or didn’t like to talk about themselves. Private students were individuals or small groups who wanted to learn one-by-one at their home or coffee shop. You could get them in various ways: agents, referrals, neighbor knocks on your door, or mother comes up to you in McDonalds - among others. One-to-ones were good because they were higher paying, and most important: easier, just sit in a coffee shop and talk to people.
Managing your schedule: Now, if you have chosen the private school, and you want to teach 35 plus hours a week, you can see from the above that you will have several jobs - Maybe, a second private school or the morning and then several privates at different times of the day. At this point you start to get obsessed with scheduling as people compete for you and you try to arrange them so that they are as near to each other as possible in terms of time and distance. For example, a private may pay 1000NT an hour but if you have to travel an hour and they only want an hour and a half it is better to try and get a school which pays less and may have a block.
Finally, there is the transportation issue: if you have numerous jobs you need a scooter to get you around as soon as possible.
When I first arrived I had no idea what I wanted to do - other than get paid a lot for doing a little - so I decided to look for as many illegal and privates as possible. Besides I liked the idea of illegal, beating the system.
It had its ups and downs...
Most non-teachers preferred to teach adults because they didn’t want to deal with the shouting and screaming, but the problem of adults were the hours weren't so stable.
Now who to work for? The big chains of English schools had there benefits: training, work visa, and organization, but there drawbacks: designed to deal with the just arrived foreigner they paid less, had more homework to mark and preparation to do for class. If you went to one of the smaller chains or independent schools, they might not: have anyone who can speak good English on staff and a clear curriculum, but you might be able to squeeze an extra hundred an hour out of them and they wouldn’t expect preparation.
Number of hours: As i said the kindergartens were the only ones who were offering a solid 40 hours a week. All the private schools, would expect you to teach a minimum of 20 hours a week for them in order to get you a work visa – but would not guarantee to give you 20 hours a week. Even if all was well at the school and you were good they still didn’t like to give you more than twenty-five hours a week, telling you that was enough because you had to prepare – It was also good for them to have more teachers on staff, hungry and a little desperate. Adult teaching schools usually had even less hours because adults were sporadic and uncommitted.
What to do? Most people had a contract at one of these private schools and then went and found an illegal job at a small school somewhere else.
The only other alternative was to find private students. Private students weren’t students who wanted to meet in dark alleys or didn’t like to talk about themselves. Private students were individuals or small groups who wanted to learn one-by-one at their home or coffee shop. You could get them in various ways: agents, referrals, neighbor knocks on your door, or mother comes up to you in McDonalds - among others. One-to-ones were good because they were higher paying, and most important: easier, just sit in a coffee shop and talk to people.
Managing your schedule: Now, if you have chosen the private school, and you want to teach 35 plus hours a week, you can see from the above that you will have several jobs - Maybe, a second private school or the morning and then several privates at different times of the day. At this point you start to get obsessed with scheduling as people compete for you and you try to arrange them so that they are as near to each other as possible in terms of time and distance. For example, a private may pay 1000NT an hour but if you have to travel an hour and they only want an hour and a half it is better to try and get a school which pays less and may have a block.
Finally, there is the transportation issue: if you have numerous jobs you need a scooter to get you around as soon as possible.
When I first arrived I had no idea what I wanted to do - other than get paid a lot for doing a little - so I decided to look for as many illegal and privates as possible. Besides I liked the idea of illegal, beating the system.
It had its ups and downs...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
An Englishman in Taipei II
This was petty and silly, but after a year of pretending to be an American in Taipei, I needed to exact some kind of revenge. Stand up for my fellow Englishman.
It was parents' evening at the school and i had had to teach the kids some good American folk songs to perform tonight.
The boss of the school was perpetually afraid her American English teacher – that she knew wasn’t - was going to be found out. “You talked to your friends, yes? You learn some good American nursery rhymes. You know the parents want to hear some American songs for the competition today,”she asked.
“No problem. These are good mid-western folk songs…My friend is from Mississippi.”
First team up.
“Where be that blackbird be.
I be after 'e
E be up that blackbird tree and I be after 'e.
E sees I, I sees 'e,
Buggar if I don’t get him,
With a gert big stick I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave 'e.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!
Blackbird I'll 'ave 'e.
I found the idea of kids singing the wurzels - a west of England comic group - to their mother, father and grandparents extremely funny, but I forgot the wurzels were so obscure I would never be found out…And without a hint of suspicion, or doubt there really was no joke.
It was parents' evening at the school and i had had to teach the kids some good American folk songs to perform tonight.
The boss of the school was perpetually afraid her American English teacher – that she knew wasn’t - was going to be found out. “You talked to your friends, yes? You learn some good American nursery rhymes. You know the parents want to hear some American songs for the competition today,”she asked.
“No problem. These are good mid-western folk songs…My friend is from Mississippi.”
First team up.
“Where be that blackbird be.
I be after 'e
E be up that blackbird tree and I be after 'e.
E sees I, I sees 'e,
Buggar if I don’t get him,
With a gert big stick I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave 'e.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!
Blackbird I'll 'ave 'e.
I found the idea of kids singing the wurzels - a west of England comic group - to their mother, father and grandparents extremely funny, but I forgot the wurzels were so obscure I would never be found out…And without a hint of suspicion, or doubt there really was no joke.
An Englishman in Taipei I
Besides the accent, as an Englishman in Taipei you will be continually asked whether you enjoyed national holidays that are not yours.
“You miss your family today?”asked the boss of the school.
I thought about whether it was my birthday or an anniversary of being in Taiwan. “Not especially today,” I replied.
“Really? I know Thanksgiving is very important for you.”
Always the fucking same, they will never get it, I thought, that, and the pumpkin pie, which I have never eaten, and never will - even after teaching the word a thousand times. I am going to get Guy Fawkes integrated into the curriculum in one of the schools before I die. Put a fuckin’ bomb under the school and then they’ll know.
I thought about giving him the talk about it not being a British holiday. “Same every year, eh. Should be okay to give it a miss once,” I replied.
“You miss your family today?”asked the boss of the school.
I thought about whether it was my birthday or an anniversary of being in Taiwan. “Not especially today,” I replied.
“Really? I know Thanksgiving is very important for you.”
Always the fucking same, they will never get it, I thought, that, and the pumpkin pie, which I have never eaten, and never will - even after teaching the word a thousand times. I am going to get Guy Fawkes integrated into the curriculum in one of the schools before I die. Put a fuckin’ bomb under the school and then they’ll know.
I thought about giving him the talk about it not being a British holiday. “Same every year, eh. Should be okay to give it a miss once,” I replied.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Taiwan teaching stories: My favorite student
This was my best student ever, a KTV girl. It was a Lilly student of course.
On the first day, her friend, tall, confident, worldly and apparently a waterbed saleswoman, came to translate, after that it was just the two of us and the fifty or so words we had in common.
Three afternoons a week at three o’clock, I came to the apartment and rang the doorbell for five minutes to wake her up; she came to the door in a towel, and then took a shower while I sat on the sofa. After a while, I could recreate her perfectly from just the sound of the water bouncing off her body.
Then she would emerge in a skin tight pair of pink shorts and a little t-shirt clearly thinking wrongly she was dressed for class and I was a professional.
During class, she chain-smoked – in fact, I bought her cigarettes because it was relief from having to smell her freshly washed hair, and remind myself of where she just come out of.
She tried very hard, handicapped by a hangover and the thudding in her head of loud Taiwanese men barking her instructions to drink and remove clothing. She also made the complaint ‘hao rhr’ every 10 minutes and I taught her ‘yes, it is hot’.
I told myself that my glances at her were fleeting, yet I could create a perfect life size model of her with those momentary snatches.
Over the weeks we communicated with her electronic dictionary. She was as convinced of her stupidity as she was the state of the weather – “Wo hen ben” – she said every five minutes and I would reply ‘no you are not stupid’ while thinking, she was right on that one, and God that was attractive.
I thought of the moral dilemma: What is a man supposed to if he was stuck in a room with a pile of money and nobody else was around? Then again, I was worried I would lose the student when I really needed the money.
I was sure she was thinking like me: ‘we are but two people deserted on a desert island and we have no choice but make a pact out of necessity to make love and say nothing when we are rescued’. Then again, maybe, she thought she was having an English lesson, not wrestling to find a solution to an extraordinary complicated circumstance.
I had convinced myself that it would be normal to conduct the class naked. Her thin and figure-hugging clothes wound me up like the silk scarf or the carefully placed camera angle on your favorite actress’s nude scene, that leaves you throwing that DVD at the wall feeling cheated.
This turning over of possibilities and desires accelerated as the class proceeded…In the final five minutes, I was sure it was okay to ask…Once outside the door, I told himself it was better that way, and commended myself on my self-control.
I was put out of my misery after about a month. After ringing the doorbell for longer than usual another girl answered the door. “Ne shir wo di 3:00 ma (Are you my 3:00 o’clock?)” she asked.
I didn't understand. “Where is Angel?” I asked. Girls who worked in these places always called themselves ‘Angel’ - Nobody could say the Taiwanese didn’t have an ironic sense of humor.
“Shei (Who?)”
“Angel, I teach her at 3:00.”
He heard a noise from inside and the girl answered, “No. Here.”
I hesitated for a moment wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery then accepted the fact the world wasn’t going to put itself right that afternoon and went on my way.
“Hey, what is san dien?” I asked with a flick up of the chin to Pierre that evening.
“Ah, SAN DIEN!” Pierre traced the tones with his fingers: a flat line for SAN and then down and up along a semi-circle for DIEN. “3 o’clock of course.”
“Shit,” I said trying to think about how much money I had in my wallet at that time - If I hadn’t missed out.
On the first day, her friend, tall, confident, worldly and apparently a waterbed saleswoman, came to translate, after that it was just the two of us and the fifty or so words we had in common.
Three afternoons a week at three o’clock, I came to the apartment and rang the doorbell for five minutes to wake her up; she came to the door in a towel, and then took a shower while I sat on the sofa. After a while, I could recreate her perfectly from just the sound of the water bouncing off her body.
Then she would emerge in a skin tight pair of pink shorts and a little t-shirt clearly thinking wrongly she was dressed for class and I was a professional.
During class, she chain-smoked – in fact, I bought her cigarettes because it was relief from having to smell her freshly washed hair, and remind myself of where she just come out of.
She tried very hard, handicapped by a hangover and the thudding in her head of loud Taiwanese men barking her instructions to drink and remove clothing. She also made the complaint ‘hao rhr’ every 10 minutes and I taught her ‘yes, it is hot’.
I told myself that my glances at her were fleeting, yet I could create a perfect life size model of her with those momentary snatches.
Over the weeks we communicated with her electronic dictionary. She was as convinced of her stupidity as she was the state of the weather – “Wo hen ben” – she said every five minutes and I would reply ‘no you are not stupid’ while thinking, she was right on that one, and God that was attractive.
I thought of the moral dilemma: What is a man supposed to if he was stuck in a room with a pile of money and nobody else was around? Then again, I was worried I would lose the student when I really needed the money.
I was sure she was thinking like me: ‘we are but two people deserted on a desert island and we have no choice but make a pact out of necessity to make love and say nothing when we are rescued’. Then again, maybe, she thought she was having an English lesson, not wrestling to find a solution to an extraordinary complicated circumstance.
I had convinced myself that it would be normal to conduct the class naked. Her thin and figure-hugging clothes wound me up like the silk scarf or the carefully placed camera angle on your favorite actress’s nude scene, that leaves you throwing that DVD at the wall feeling cheated.
This turning over of possibilities and desires accelerated as the class proceeded…In the final five minutes, I was sure it was okay to ask…Once outside the door, I told himself it was better that way, and commended myself on my self-control.
I was put out of my misery after about a month. After ringing the doorbell for longer than usual another girl answered the door. “Ne shir wo di 3:00 ma (Are you my 3:00 o’clock?)” she asked.
I didn't understand. “Where is Angel?” I asked. Girls who worked in these places always called themselves ‘Angel’ - Nobody could say the Taiwanese didn’t have an ironic sense of humor.
“Shei (Who?)”
“Angel, I teach her at 3:00.”
He heard a noise from inside and the girl answered, “No. Here.”
I hesitated for a moment wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery then accepted the fact the world wasn’t going to put itself right that afternoon and went on my way.
“Hey, what is san dien?” I asked with a flick up of the chin to Pierre that evening.
“Ah, SAN DIEN!” Pierre traced the tones with his fingers: a flat line for SAN and then down and up along a semi-circle for DIEN. “3 o’clock of course.”
“Shit,” I said trying to think about how much money I had in my wallet at that time - If I hadn’t missed out.
Taiwan lifestyle: Taiwan is not the best place to save money
Taiwan wasn’t the best place to come to if you wanted to save money. It was not that work wasn’t available, it is just the temptations of women, cheap beer and mountains were too great.
This contradiction was at its worst in the summer: it was the best time to earn money if you were teaching and it was also the best time not to be working. Feeling guilty about not having saved any money I signed myself up for packed summer of teaching determined to be a good boy.
The summer holidays were of course the best time for earning teaching dollars because the government schools closed and the private ones would have to take up the slack.
For an idea of the length of a school year in Taiwan think a Premiership Football season, significant progress in the Cup competitions domestic and European, plus a couple of summer tours with a world cup in between.
In order to fill my schedule I volunteered for the morning class that nobody wanted. It was not for the faint hearted: Monday through Friday from 9-12 for 3 months, a bunch of blurry eyed, angry kids who hadn’t sleep enough (they never go to bed in Taiwan before 12 o’clock on a normal school day and this was a holiday) were dragged through the door by their grandparents.
(A side note: grandparents didn’t get to see their grandchildren when it suited them, they were obliged to take care of them full-time. When they were babies they would take care of them from Monday to Friday only returning them to the parents at the weekend. Then when they were old enough to go to kindergarten, their duties became ferrying them from school to school.)
Things were made worse still because the schools forgot all their rules about assigning based on age and ability because they were oversubscribed and they could.
The children were rarely openly defiant instead, they compromised, opting only to stop moving or talking when the teacher was addressing them directly. Once I had turned my attention to the kids sitting next to them they carried on.
About three weeks into my two months of forty-five hours a week, I was beginning to lose it.
On this particular day the sky was clear and my friends were determined to make me suffer.
I got a call from Eric at around twelve, midday - just three hours into my nine for the day.
“Hey, man. What are you doing for lunch?” he asked. “You want to go up to Yangmingshan? It is a great day.”
“I have half an hour, today. Same as yesterday when you called,” I said. “Stop taking the piss.”
“Sorry, man. Today is a different day. Maybe you saw the weather and phoned in sick….Anyway, Yangmingshan is past you so I’ll meet you for lunch. Nothing else to do…”
Fucking bastard, I thought. I knew it was a fantastic day, and there was nothing better than applying your sun cream and driving around the mountains, breathing the fresh air, feeling the cool breeze on your skin instead of the constant sauna that was the city.
“Hey, man. Let’s eat somewhere cheap?” said Eric as he arrived. “I spotted a dumpling house just around the corner.”
“Whatever,” I said although I was thinking about going to a coffee shop where they had comfortable chairs not stools. The bill in the coffee shop would only be about 150NT each, but Eric was thinking more on the lines of 40NT.
We walked up the alley. It was the hottest time. The sun reflected off the humidity in the air and the cars and apartments either side were given a slightly surreal look; as if viewed through steam. The women coming out of the kindergarten and nearby shops and offices were carrying parasols, or wearing jackets to protect themselves from the sun. There was a little park at the end of the road and I stared longingly at the bench. I felt the sweat drip down my back. This weather just cried out for a trip to a swimming pool. I was English, and that only made it harder: these Californians and Southern Europeans had sun at home; they didn’t understand the English need to spend every minute under the sun.
We arrived at the shop and took up positions on a couple of stools at the corner of a table filled with locals quickly wolfing down their cheap boiled dumplings.
“You coming out Friday night,” I asked.
“Sorry, a little short of cash,” he answered.
“You never have any money,”
“Yeah, man, but this is special – I have been eating fucking dumplings for a week. And, I don’t mean dumpling-shop poor, but packets of frozen dumplings from the Welcome supermarket.”
For 60 NT, from a street vendor, you could buy enough dumplings to fill up a Samoan, so if you needed to buy from the supermarket…
“Anyway, didn’t I give you a student? Four hours a week, 900 an hour.”
“That didn’t work out!” Eric had turned sheepish.
“And why is that?”
“She used me. I was seduced. She kept wearing those little shorts - you know the ones.”
“The type you wear when it is 38 degrees and extremely humid, and you are relaxing at home.”
Eric knew he had been a complete idiot: he needed the money more than the girl, but her four hours a week of expensive English lessons had become many more for nothing.
“That is the last time, matey boy - I will lose face over that…Anyway, where are you going,” I said to torture myself.
“I heard there is a free hot spring somewhere in the park. If not I will sit by the river with a couple of cans of Taiwan beer and study.”
Eric continued, “You?” he asked with a smirk.
“I have another seven hours left to teach.”
“Harsh, man. You have to learn to take it easy. Live a little.”
“Hmm, we have been through that one,” I said. “I am saving money.” I paused for a second. “Right, I have to prepare for the afternoon’s class. You get the fuck off and stop torturing me.”
I walked back to the school dreading walking through the doors into that mass of artificial light, and concrete. God I was missing my old lifestyle that Eric and Pierre were still enjoying. It was a fantastic quality of life: great food for cheap, minimal transport costs, and, most importantly, some girl, who because she wanted to practice her English or wrongly believed you wanted to make her life like a bed of roses, was prepared to sleep with you.
As the two hour class for the afternoon was fruit, we managed to draw fruit, pretend to eat fruit, sing about fruit, guess the fruit from colors and shapes. I forget actually what else we did to pass the time…
At three o’clock I got on my bike and headed into the city center for a private student – on the way trying not to look at the scantily clad betel nut girls. The day was getting tougher.
Suddenly my phone rang and my three-thirty was canceling. I sat by the side of the road and considered my options. Actually being left with two hours to kill was a pain: going home was an option, but it would take half an hour to get home and then half an hour to my other student. I could sit on my bed with the aircon on, but it hardly felt worth it for one hour, and it would mean I would take a shower and change clothes and then the last thing you wanted to do was get back out in that traffic. I decided to hang around outside instead. Sit in a coffee shop and eat my dinner slowly.
I taught my next student in the Seattle Coffee Shop on Chong Hsiao so I decided to head to Sogo to have something to eat in the basement.
I knew I was going to have the combo meat set from that Japanese chain store, Yoshinoya, but still I did a circuit of all food outlets. The four walls of the basement were lined with small food outlets, each no more than about six feet across. The soup with the Japanese noodles was excellent but the meat was never enough, the Taiwanese oyster pancake looked good but I still hadn’t learned to say it in Chinese and I couldn’t be bothered to try; the Cantonese duck was great but a little greasy, as were all of the stir-fried dishes. MacDonalds and Kentucky I had already had several times this week. Finally, I arrived at the Yoshinoya and pointed at the big plastic specimen meal under the glass counter - A big bowl of rice with strips of chicken, beef and pork on the top covered in sweet soy.
“Do you want the set?” asked the assistant.
“Yes,” I replied. The set included ice lemon tea, a portion of steamed egg with shrimp inside, and a little saucer of Japanese pickled ginger and radish.
I took my tray and looked for a seat. That was the problem coming here - there were hundreds of seats in the center of the floor but most were occupied.
“Sorry,” I said and squeezed my knees under the table next to a mother with a couple of kids.
“No problem,” the mother replied, and then I watched them watching me use chopsticks.
It wasn't a smart move coming here. It was seven o’clock so all around were shop girls finishing their shift upstairs and office girls having dinner before spending the rest of the evening wandering around upstairs looking at clothes.
It was summer so the Taiwanese girl was being displayed in her full glory. What did I mean by that? – Taiwanese girls were petite which meant when they were wearing their big coats in winter their body shape was hidden; now, in their low-rider jeans, short skirts, flat scandals and sports vests their lean shoulders, flat stomach and slim legs were apparent and intoxicating.
Since I started teaching forty-five hours a week, I had stopped chasing in favor of fuck partners and girlfriends of convenience, usually young students - students had time on their hands and you could call up in the afternoon if you had a cancellation, or late in the evening if you had a cancelled morning class the next day. Office girls weren't a good option: they worked so hard, they always wanted to meet on Friday or Saturday nights when i wanted to go to the bar.
I treated the student girls nicely: they got free English lessons, and I would genuinely help them to fill out that application for studying abroad, or answer questions for their TOEFL. If everything went well, I would stay with said girl until she left for Canada or America, and even answer her emails for a couple of months until she found another boyfriend.
A bunch of girls in black dresses and high heels sat down at the table to my left, and by their white complexions and heavy mascara I assumed they were just having some breakfast before going to work.
Twenty minutes later these girls finished their food and got up. I decided to leave as well. They went left, the same direction as me, so I continued behind them across Dunhwa South Road; they then soon took the left into Minchuan Department Store and started queuing at the elevator. I had been to the MTV on the seventh floor many times, so even though I didn’t follow them and see what floor number they pressed, I had confidence they were going to the KTV on the eighth floor. I hissed, feeling the want consume my body, before walking to the coffee shop to meet my student.
“Have you done your homework?” I asked.
“Yesterday, my work very busy - go to see client.”
“Yesterday, you were very busy because you went to see a client, yes? Past tense of go is went, past tense of is…” hold on he didn’t even use the be verb, I thought but anyway, “past tense of is, is ‘was.’” Besides he had had one week to do his homework so what did it have to do with yesterday?
“Yes, yesterday, because I go see client, I very busy.”
“I think we need to do some grammar practice, concentrate on making our sentences more accurate. I give you a verb and you give me a past tense sentence.”
“I know past tense. I want study conversation.”
“This is conversation -” I said.
One of the problems of trying to keep a busy schedule was this kind of student. I had an empty slot on a Tuesday night and had taken an adult student against my better judgment. I didn’t like to teach adults because: classes were slow, they didn’t learn as fast as kids, and, most importantly, when they kept making the same mistake or didn’t do their homework, you just had to smile sweetly, because they were adults after all. To be fair adults could be broken down further: housewives, students and women in general came to learn. This type of student was the worse kind: male, forties, businessman; they were always late, never did their homework, and invariably wanted to study conversation. This was the great buzzword that got adult Taiwanese flocking into schools by the thousands handing over their hard earned cash: ‘You studied writing and grammar in schools so all you need is a chance to practice. We will get you a foreign teacher for conversation,’ went the sales pitch. Unfortunately, they had only learnt how to write ok grammar. Their terrible bad habits when they spoke could only be ironed out by relearning the rules and oral practice, something they were convinced was unnecessary.
“So what does your company do?”
“My company sell car brake.”
“Your company sells car brakes. Who do you sell to? Where are your clients from?”
“Many client! Yesterday, they come from Japanese.”
“You have many clients. Yesterday’s clients were from Japan. Japan is the country, Japanese is the person.”
“Okay…uh...yesterday, we go…” It was going to be a long evening, as usual.
After class I made up my mind to give the student to Eric, who enjoyed teaching adult conversation classes; no preparation, sitting and watching the clock teaching.
Class was over at ten o’clock, and I ambled back to Sogo to find my motorbike, looking around longingly. I knew I should go to bed, as I was three weeks into a forty-five hour week schedule, but I was pushing myself hard, and the offset to that was to seek more powerful kicks to take your mind off the day job. I understood why brokers were coked up all the time.
The choice was to get really drunk, get in a fight or pick up a girl. Getting laid was clearly the most constructive of these. I thought about who to call. Who would come around immediately?
That would be the best thing to do, I thought as he drove past a brothel on Linsen South Road, on the way back to the hostel. I didn’t have a lot of time, and I was looking for a cheap kick, just pay my 3,000NT and get things done. I circled back to go past the place slowly, stopping outside. It had a smoked glass door so I had to wait for someone to walk past and step on the mat to open it. Sat downstairs were four middle aged women with the usual bad tight perm, casually watching TV. I searched for a young one, but nothing under thirty.
I ain’t paying for that I decided…Fuck.
I had just revved my motorbike to get back into the traffic when a taxi abruptly stopped directly in front of me…Hmm…Two minutes later the taxi was still there…I beeped my horn…I beeped my horn louder…The taxi still didn’t move…I looked at the taxi driver and beeped again even louder…Still no response…Hmm, there is of course that option, I thought. I have been cut off by taxis and cars for more than a year, and I haven’t punched any out because I would be in a constant fight, still, on reflection, it wouldn’t hurt to take out my frustration on one of them.
I took another look at the guy and he was a middle-aged man, and his audacity – and stupidity – because he must be able to see how big I was made me angrier. I turned off my scooter, dismounted, and make his way around the boot of the car, the adrenalin was starting to build up…Nah, I decided, and walked back around to my motorbike peddling it backwards. There were too many variables out of my control: the police could arrive, and I could spend the night in a cell. I wanted something I could start and finish in the next hour. Get to sleep by twelve.
“Hey, Pierre,” I said bumping into him coming out of the hotel where we lived. “Where are you going?”
“Bit of business to solve,” said Pierre.
“Alright, mate,” said John. “Hey, got any women who are no questions asked type, will be around in twenty minutes. You know I am a busy man.”
“Why don’t you go to that whorehouse down the road? That is what I always do.”
“Those old skanks? I don’t know whether they want to suck me off or straighten my collar. I thought about going in but it just felt like I was intruding on one of me mother’s Tupperware parties.”
“Very nice! They know what they are doing…How to provide ze service.”
“Your right,” I said.
This old, therefore, provides a service bollocks is bullshit. Yes, when I was 14 and clueless, I wanted my mate’s mother to broaden her legs and my horizons; I thought ink she was gonna take me on a magical ecstasy tour – but then I grew up, and realized there is such a thing as a bad fuck, but they are mostly the same, with location, fitness of said bird, and atmosphere being more important. I haven’t really experienced anything new from the box of tricks in a while.
Pierre stopped and turned around. “I have something for you. Just go home. Take a shower and I will sort it out…Don’t worry, it is not a whore…well, not one that charges anyway.”
Twenty minutes later I was sat on his bed waiting. I had just gone downstairs to buy some condoms, a bottle of water and some beer – and had turned the TV to MTV (something neutral; prevent the neighbors from hearing through the wall). Life was good again. Today had been a bad day: it had rained the last few days so the pollution had been cleared away. Tomorrow it would start to build up again, and in a couple of days the sky would be cloudy again and I would be thinking about how it was best I was in work. At the end of the week he would be half way through my marathon summer schedule. I congratulated myself for not punching anyone. I was going to get laid; make an excuse to get rid of her and then be asleep by twelve, ready and refreshed for tomorrow’s ten hour day.
“Very pretty,” I said opening the door. “What is your name?”
“Claudette,” she replied.
Most girls had an English name so it was fun and exciting to get a French groupie - I guessed she could also speak the language of love.
“Pierre said you would like to meet a Taiwanese girl. You are lonely in Taiwan, and you would like to talk.”
I smiled, “That is right.”
One hour later: “Yes, a good start. I know you foreigners like to fuck - satisfy a woman. Come on. Drink some water and then make love to me again.”
Hmm, not me, I thought, once is enough to get my frustration out.
I should tell her she had been watching too many movies, but then I always believed you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds. I felt strangely responsible to not let down our stereotype.
I reached for the bottle of water and pointed at my soft dick to suggest she do something …Oh well, I wasn’t going to get any sleep.
...Fuck it is light. I have to get up in one hour. And I can’t even sleep that because that bottle of water was finished hours ago and I am parched…desperate for some more.
I headed for the shower, and scrubbed my body in slow-motion, enjoying cleaning myself as if he had just played football for four hours in driving rain and mud.
That fucking bastard Pierre…Then I looked down…Well, at least you are going to be out of action for a while.
This contradiction was at its worst in the summer: it was the best time to earn money if you were teaching and it was also the best time not to be working. Feeling guilty about not having saved any money I signed myself up for packed summer of teaching determined to be a good boy.
The summer holidays were of course the best time for earning teaching dollars because the government schools closed and the private ones would have to take up the slack.
For an idea of the length of a school year in Taiwan think a Premiership Football season, significant progress in the Cup competitions domestic and European, plus a couple of summer tours with a world cup in between.
In order to fill my schedule I volunteered for the morning class that nobody wanted. It was not for the faint hearted: Monday through Friday from 9-12 for 3 months, a bunch of blurry eyed, angry kids who hadn’t sleep enough (they never go to bed in Taiwan before 12 o’clock on a normal school day and this was a holiday) were dragged through the door by their grandparents.
(A side note: grandparents didn’t get to see their grandchildren when it suited them, they were obliged to take care of them full-time. When they were babies they would take care of them from Monday to Friday only returning them to the parents at the weekend. Then when they were old enough to go to kindergarten, their duties became ferrying them from school to school.)
Things were made worse still because the schools forgot all their rules about assigning based on age and ability because they were oversubscribed and they could.
The children were rarely openly defiant instead, they compromised, opting only to stop moving or talking when the teacher was addressing them directly. Once I had turned my attention to the kids sitting next to them they carried on.
About three weeks into my two months of forty-five hours a week, I was beginning to lose it.
On this particular day the sky was clear and my friends were determined to make me suffer.
I got a call from Eric at around twelve, midday - just three hours into my nine for the day.
“Hey, man. What are you doing for lunch?” he asked. “You want to go up to Yangmingshan? It is a great day.”
“I have half an hour, today. Same as yesterday when you called,” I said. “Stop taking the piss.”
“Sorry, man. Today is a different day. Maybe you saw the weather and phoned in sick….Anyway, Yangmingshan is past you so I’ll meet you for lunch. Nothing else to do…”
Fucking bastard, I thought. I knew it was a fantastic day, and there was nothing better than applying your sun cream and driving around the mountains, breathing the fresh air, feeling the cool breeze on your skin instead of the constant sauna that was the city.
“Hey, man. Let’s eat somewhere cheap?” said Eric as he arrived. “I spotted a dumpling house just around the corner.”
“Whatever,” I said although I was thinking about going to a coffee shop where they had comfortable chairs not stools. The bill in the coffee shop would only be about 150NT each, but Eric was thinking more on the lines of 40NT.
We walked up the alley. It was the hottest time. The sun reflected off the humidity in the air and the cars and apartments either side were given a slightly surreal look; as if viewed through steam. The women coming out of the kindergarten and nearby shops and offices were carrying parasols, or wearing jackets to protect themselves from the sun. There was a little park at the end of the road and I stared longingly at the bench. I felt the sweat drip down my back. This weather just cried out for a trip to a swimming pool. I was English, and that only made it harder: these Californians and Southern Europeans had sun at home; they didn’t understand the English need to spend every minute under the sun.
We arrived at the shop and took up positions on a couple of stools at the corner of a table filled with locals quickly wolfing down their cheap boiled dumplings.
“You coming out Friday night,” I asked.
“Sorry, a little short of cash,” he answered.
“You never have any money,”
“Yeah, man, but this is special – I have been eating fucking dumplings for a week. And, I don’t mean dumpling-shop poor, but packets of frozen dumplings from the Welcome supermarket.”
For 60 NT, from a street vendor, you could buy enough dumplings to fill up a Samoan, so if you needed to buy from the supermarket…
“Anyway, didn’t I give you a student? Four hours a week, 900 an hour.”
“That didn’t work out!” Eric had turned sheepish.
“And why is that?”
“She used me. I was seduced. She kept wearing those little shorts - you know the ones.”
“The type you wear when it is 38 degrees and extremely humid, and you are relaxing at home.”
Eric knew he had been a complete idiot: he needed the money more than the girl, but her four hours a week of expensive English lessons had become many more for nothing.
“That is the last time, matey boy - I will lose face over that…Anyway, where are you going,” I said to torture myself.
“I heard there is a free hot spring somewhere in the park. If not I will sit by the river with a couple of cans of Taiwan beer and study.”
Eric continued, “You?” he asked with a smirk.
“I have another seven hours left to teach.”
“Harsh, man. You have to learn to take it easy. Live a little.”
“Hmm, we have been through that one,” I said. “I am saving money.” I paused for a second. “Right, I have to prepare for the afternoon’s class. You get the fuck off and stop torturing me.”
I walked back to the school dreading walking through the doors into that mass of artificial light, and concrete. God I was missing my old lifestyle that Eric and Pierre were still enjoying. It was a fantastic quality of life: great food for cheap, minimal transport costs, and, most importantly, some girl, who because she wanted to practice her English or wrongly believed you wanted to make her life like a bed of roses, was prepared to sleep with you.
As the two hour class for the afternoon was fruit, we managed to draw fruit, pretend to eat fruit, sing about fruit, guess the fruit from colors and shapes. I forget actually what else we did to pass the time…
At three o’clock I got on my bike and headed into the city center for a private student – on the way trying not to look at the scantily clad betel nut girls. The day was getting tougher.
Suddenly my phone rang and my three-thirty was canceling. I sat by the side of the road and considered my options. Actually being left with two hours to kill was a pain: going home was an option, but it would take half an hour to get home and then half an hour to my other student. I could sit on my bed with the aircon on, but it hardly felt worth it for one hour, and it would mean I would take a shower and change clothes and then the last thing you wanted to do was get back out in that traffic. I decided to hang around outside instead. Sit in a coffee shop and eat my dinner slowly.
I taught my next student in the Seattle Coffee Shop on Chong Hsiao so I decided to head to Sogo to have something to eat in the basement.
I knew I was going to have the combo meat set from that Japanese chain store, Yoshinoya, but still I did a circuit of all food outlets. The four walls of the basement were lined with small food outlets, each no more than about six feet across. The soup with the Japanese noodles was excellent but the meat was never enough, the Taiwanese oyster pancake looked good but I still hadn’t learned to say it in Chinese and I couldn’t be bothered to try; the Cantonese duck was great but a little greasy, as were all of the stir-fried dishes. MacDonalds and Kentucky I had already had several times this week. Finally, I arrived at the Yoshinoya and pointed at the big plastic specimen meal under the glass counter - A big bowl of rice with strips of chicken, beef and pork on the top covered in sweet soy.
“Do you want the set?” asked the assistant.
“Yes,” I replied. The set included ice lemon tea, a portion of steamed egg with shrimp inside, and a little saucer of Japanese pickled ginger and radish.
I took my tray and looked for a seat. That was the problem coming here - there were hundreds of seats in the center of the floor but most were occupied.
“Sorry,” I said and squeezed my knees under the table next to a mother with a couple of kids.
“No problem,” the mother replied, and then I watched them watching me use chopsticks.
It wasn't a smart move coming here. It was seven o’clock so all around were shop girls finishing their shift upstairs and office girls having dinner before spending the rest of the evening wandering around upstairs looking at clothes.
It was summer so the Taiwanese girl was being displayed in her full glory. What did I mean by that? – Taiwanese girls were petite which meant when they were wearing their big coats in winter their body shape was hidden; now, in their low-rider jeans, short skirts, flat scandals and sports vests their lean shoulders, flat stomach and slim legs were apparent and intoxicating.
Since I started teaching forty-five hours a week, I had stopped chasing in favor of fuck partners and girlfriends of convenience, usually young students - students had time on their hands and you could call up in the afternoon if you had a cancellation, or late in the evening if you had a cancelled morning class the next day. Office girls weren't a good option: they worked so hard, they always wanted to meet on Friday or Saturday nights when i wanted to go to the bar.
I treated the student girls nicely: they got free English lessons, and I would genuinely help them to fill out that application for studying abroad, or answer questions for their TOEFL. If everything went well, I would stay with said girl until she left for Canada or America, and even answer her emails for a couple of months until she found another boyfriend.
A bunch of girls in black dresses and high heels sat down at the table to my left, and by their white complexions and heavy mascara I assumed they were just having some breakfast before going to work.
Twenty minutes later these girls finished their food and got up. I decided to leave as well. They went left, the same direction as me, so I continued behind them across Dunhwa South Road; they then soon took the left into Minchuan Department Store and started queuing at the elevator. I had been to the MTV on the seventh floor many times, so even though I didn’t follow them and see what floor number they pressed, I had confidence they were going to the KTV on the eighth floor. I hissed, feeling the want consume my body, before walking to the coffee shop to meet my student.
“Have you done your homework?” I asked.
“Yesterday, my work very busy - go to see client.”
“Yesterday, you were very busy because you went to see a client, yes? Past tense of go is went, past tense of is…” hold on he didn’t even use the be verb, I thought but anyway, “past tense of is, is ‘was.’” Besides he had had one week to do his homework so what did it have to do with yesterday?
“Yes, yesterday, because I go see client, I very busy.”
“I think we need to do some grammar practice, concentrate on making our sentences more accurate. I give you a verb and you give me a past tense sentence.”
“I know past tense. I want study conversation.”
“This is conversation -” I said.
One of the problems of trying to keep a busy schedule was this kind of student. I had an empty slot on a Tuesday night and had taken an adult student against my better judgment. I didn’t like to teach adults because: classes were slow, they didn’t learn as fast as kids, and, most importantly, when they kept making the same mistake or didn’t do their homework, you just had to smile sweetly, because they were adults after all. To be fair adults could be broken down further: housewives, students and women in general came to learn. This type of student was the worse kind: male, forties, businessman; they were always late, never did their homework, and invariably wanted to study conversation. This was the great buzzword that got adult Taiwanese flocking into schools by the thousands handing over their hard earned cash: ‘You studied writing and grammar in schools so all you need is a chance to practice. We will get you a foreign teacher for conversation,’ went the sales pitch. Unfortunately, they had only learnt how to write ok grammar. Their terrible bad habits when they spoke could only be ironed out by relearning the rules and oral practice, something they were convinced was unnecessary.
“So what does your company do?”
“My company sell car brake.”
“Your company sells car brakes. Who do you sell to? Where are your clients from?”
“Many client! Yesterday, they come from Japanese.”
“You have many clients. Yesterday’s clients were from Japan. Japan is the country, Japanese is the person.”
“Okay…uh...yesterday, we go…” It was going to be a long evening, as usual.
After class I made up my mind to give the student to Eric, who enjoyed teaching adult conversation classes; no preparation, sitting and watching the clock teaching.
Class was over at ten o’clock, and I ambled back to Sogo to find my motorbike, looking around longingly. I knew I should go to bed, as I was three weeks into a forty-five hour week schedule, but I was pushing myself hard, and the offset to that was to seek more powerful kicks to take your mind off the day job. I understood why brokers were coked up all the time.
The choice was to get really drunk, get in a fight or pick up a girl. Getting laid was clearly the most constructive of these. I thought about who to call. Who would come around immediately?
That would be the best thing to do, I thought as he drove past a brothel on Linsen South Road, on the way back to the hostel. I didn’t have a lot of time, and I was looking for a cheap kick, just pay my 3,000NT and get things done. I circled back to go past the place slowly, stopping outside. It had a smoked glass door so I had to wait for someone to walk past and step on the mat to open it. Sat downstairs were four middle aged women with the usual bad tight perm, casually watching TV. I searched for a young one, but nothing under thirty.
I ain’t paying for that I decided…Fuck.
I had just revved my motorbike to get back into the traffic when a taxi abruptly stopped directly in front of me…Hmm…Two minutes later the taxi was still there…I beeped my horn…I beeped my horn louder…The taxi still didn’t move…I looked at the taxi driver and beeped again even louder…Still no response…Hmm, there is of course that option, I thought. I have been cut off by taxis and cars for more than a year, and I haven’t punched any out because I would be in a constant fight, still, on reflection, it wouldn’t hurt to take out my frustration on one of them.
I took another look at the guy and he was a middle-aged man, and his audacity – and stupidity – because he must be able to see how big I was made me angrier. I turned off my scooter, dismounted, and make his way around the boot of the car, the adrenalin was starting to build up…Nah, I decided, and walked back around to my motorbike peddling it backwards. There were too many variables out of my control: the police could arrive, and I could spend the night in a cell. I wanted something I could start and finish in the next hour. Get to sleep by twelve.
“Hey, Pierre,” I said bumping into him coming out of the hotel where we lived. “Where are you going?”
“Bit of business to solve,” said Pierre.
“Alright, mate,” said John. “Hey, got any women who are no questions asked type, will be around in twenty minutes. You know I am a busy man.”
“Why don’t you go to that whorehouse down the road? That is what I always do.”
“Those old skanks? I don’t know whether they want to suck me off or straighten my collar. I thought about going in but it just felt like I was intruding on one of me mother’s Tupperware parties.”
“Very nice! They know what they are doing…How to provide ze service.”
“Your right,” I said.
This old, therefore, provides a service bollocks is bullshit. Yes, when I was 14 and clueless, I wanted my mate’s mother to broaden her legs and my horizons; I thought ink she was gonna take me on a magical ecstasy tour – but then I grew up, and realized there is such a thing as a bad fuck, but they are mostly the same, with location, fitness of said bird, and atmosphere being more important. I haven’t really experienced anything new from the box of tricks in a while.
Pierre stopped and turned around. “I have something for you. Just go home. Take a shower and I will sort it out…Don’t worry, it is not a whore…well, not one that charges anyway.”
Twenty minutes later I was sat on his bed waiting. I had just gone downstairs to buy some condoms, a bottle of water and some beer – and had turned the TV to MTV (something neutral; prevent the neighbors from hearing through the wall). Life was good again. Today had been a bad day: it had rained the last few days so the pollution had been cleared away. Tomorrow it would start to build up again, and in a couple of days the sky would be cloudy again and I would be thinking about how it was best I was in work. At the end of the week he would be half way through my marathon summer schedule. I congratulated myself for not punching anyone. I was going to get laid; make an excuse to get rid of her and then be asleep by twelve, ready and refreshed for tomorrow’s ten hour day.
“Very pretty,” I said opening the door. “What is your name?”
“Claudette,” she replied.
Most girls had an English name so it was fun and exciting to get a French groupie - I guessed she could also speak the language of love.
“Pierre said you would like to meet a Taiwanese girl. You are lonely in Taiwan, and you would like to talk.”
I smiled, “That is right.”
One hour later: “Yes, a good start. I know you foreigners like to fuck - satisfy a woman. Come on. Drink some water and then make love to me again.”
Hmm, not me, I thought, once is enough to get my frustration out.
I should tell her she had been watching too many movies, but then I always believed you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds. I felt strangely responsible to not let down our stereotype.
I reached for the bottle of water and pointed at my soft dick to suggest she do something …Oh well, I wasn’t going to get any sleep.
...Fuck it is light. I have to get up in one hour. And I can’t even sleep that because that bottle of water was finished hours ago and I am parched…desperate for some more.
I headed for the shower, and scrubbed my body in slow-motion, enjoying cleaning myself as if he had just played football for four hours in driving rain and mud.
That fucking bastard Pierre…Then I looked down…Well, at least you are going to be out of action for a while.
English teaching VI: The perfect way to find teaching work
I had some low points in the old days finding private one-to-one teaching work. I would turn up to meet a potential student, and, because I wasn’t so confident in my abilities, I would sit around with them for hours making conversation, hoping this was what would get me the student.
It often didn’t.
A friend Josh always had more work than he could do so I decided to ask his secret. I met him in a McDonalds about two streets away from the hostel.
As I entered Josh got up, came across the room and forcefully shook my hand. “What’s up, man?” he asked.
Josh wasn’t arrogant or pushy or highly strung but God he was INTENSE. I had known him for a while now, but I still had to keep reminding myself after his every sentence, that I wasn’t in full military combat gear, gun loaded ready, about to run out of the front of an amphibious landing craft onto the beaches of Normandy under heavy German artillery fire; I had to remind myself that I was dealing with casual questions about cold or hot coffee.
Suddenly Josh introduced a mother and her son who were sat at the table across from us: “This is Sara and her son, Tim.”
I said hello and started to sweat – Yes, I had asked Josh if he knew of any new students, but he didn’t want to teach the kid there and then in the McDonalds.
Tim was crayoning a picture. “What color for the pig?” asked Josh.
“Pink,” replied Tim.
“Good boy,” said Josh. “You finish and give it to your mother…Bye, Bye!!”
Josh then packed away the crayons and the rest of pictures into his bag. “It works,” he said.
“Thank fuck for that I thought I had to teach the kid here,” I said.
“No man. I got her number, but she wants an American accent. Anyway, I think there is a segment here for you. I called around a little and got you a client. Low down - guy has a son he wants to send to England to study in a couple of years, your job is to whip him into shape now, get him ready for his exams. I gave the guy a call and told him you are a university graduate with four years experience of teach English as a 2nd language. He lives about an hour outside the city so I insisted it must be three hours at a time, twice a week. Oh, yeah, and if he wants to secure your services the contract is 20 hours payable in advance - you’re a busy man.”
“Hey and there is a contract? You know I don’t have a work visa,” I asked.
“Figure of speech: clients and contracts - of course it is not written down. Final thing, it is 900 dollars an hour.”
“900 dollars an hour?” I said spitting out my coke. I was beginning to get worried. I knew some people did get paid that much, but not me - I took the 400 and 500 dollar an hour students because they wouldn’t fire me. Now I was under pressure to perform, knowing I should really give something for that amount of pay.
“Of course, man. You are a professional. Never let them know you are begging for work."
Josh went on to explain then the way he did things. He would meet a student and tell them in advance that the purpose of the meeting was to see if he wanted to teach them. He would meet them for twenty minutes in which he would show them a copy of his degree and his resume. He would always leave after the twenty minutes were up. It worked of course.
I never quite managed to be as confident as him, but I did get his point.
It often didn’t.
A friend Josh always had more work than he could do so I decided to ask his secret. I met him in a McDonalds about two streets away from the hostel.
As I entered Josh got up, came across the room and forcefully shook my hand. “What’s up, man?” he asked.
Josh wasn’t arrogant or pushy or highly strung but God he was INTENSE. I had known him for a while now, but I still had to keep reminding myself after his every sentence, that I wasn’t in full military combat gear, gun loaded ready, about to run out of the front of an amphibious landing craft onto the beaches of Normandy under heavy German artillery fire; I had to remind myself that I was dealing with casual questions about cold or hot coffee.
Suddenly Josh introduced a mother and her son who were sat at the table across from us: “This is Sara and her son, Tim.”
I said hello and started to sweat – Yes, I had asked Josh if he knew of any new students, but he didn’t want to teach the kid there and then in the McDonalds.
Tim was crayoning a picture. “What color for the pig?” asked Josh.
“Pink,” replied Tim.
“Good boy,” said Josh. “You finish and give it to your mother…Bye, Bye!!”
Josh then packed away the crayons and the rest of pictures into his bag. “It works,” he said.
“Thank fuck for that I thought I had to teach the kid here,” I said.
“No man. I got her number, but she wants an American accent. Anyway, I think there is a segment here for you. I called around a little and got you a client. Low down - guy has a son he wants to send to England to study in a couple of years, your job is to whip him into shape now, get him ready for his exams. I gave the guy a call and told him you are a university graduate with four years experience of teach English as a 2nd language. He lives about an hour outside the city so I insisted it must be three hours at a time, twice a week. Oh, yeah, and if he wants to secure your services the contract is 20 hours payable in advance - you’re a busy man.”
“Hey and there is a contract? You know I don’t have a work visa,” I asked.
“Figure of speech: clients and contracts - of course it is not written down. Final thing, it is 900 dollars an hour.”
“900 dollars an hour?” I said spitting out my coke. I was beginning to get worried. I knew some people did get paid that much, but not me - I took the 400 and 500 dollar an hour students because they wouldn’t fire me. Now I was under pressure to perform, knowing I should really give something for that amount of pay.
“Of course, man. You are a professional. Never let them know you are begging for work."
Josh went on to explain then the way he did things. He would meet a student and tell them in advance that the purpose of the meeting was to see if he wanted to teach them. He would meet them for twenty minutes in which he would show them a copy of his degree and his resume. He would always leave after the twenty minutes were up. It worked of course.
I never quite managed to be as confident as him, but I did get his point.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
English teaching: I want to study miracle conversation
The older generation were fixated on the idea of learning conversation.
“Have you done your homework?” I asked.
“Yesterday, my work very busy - go to see client,” replied my student.
“Yesterday, you were very busy because you went to see a client, yes? Past tense of go is went, past tense of is…” hold on he didn’t even use the be verb, I thought but anyway, “past tense of is, is ‘was.’” Besides he had had one week to do his homework so what did it have to do with yesterday?
“Yes, yesterday, because I go see client, I very busy.”
“I think we need to do some grammar practice, concentrate on making our sentences more accurate. I give you a verb and you give me a past tense sentence.”
“I know past tense. I want study conversation.”
“This is conversation,” I said.
One of the problems of trying to keep a busy schedule was this kind of student. I had an empty slot on a Tuesday night and had taken an adult student against my better judgment. I didn’t like to teach adults because: classes were slow, they didn’t learn as fast as kids, and, most importantly, when they kept making the same mistake or didn’t do their homework, you just had to smile sweetly, because they were adults after all. Adults could be broken down further: housewives, students and women in general came to learn. This type of student was the worse kind: male, forties, businessman; they were always late, never did their homework, and invariably wanted to study conversation. This was the great buzzword that got adult Taiwanese flocking into schools by the thousands handing over their hard earned cash: ‘You studied writing and grammar in schools so all you need is a chance to practice. We will get you a foreign teacher for conversation,’ went the sales pitch. Unfortunately, they had only learnt how to write ok grammar. Their terrible bad habits when they spoke could only be ironed out by relearning the rules and oral practice, something they were convinced was unnecessary.
“So what does your company do?”
“My company sell car brake.”
“Your company sells car brakes. Who do you sell to? Where are your clients from?”
“Many client! Yesterday, they come from Japanese.”
“You have many clients. Yesterday’s clients were from Japan. Japan is the country, Japanese is the person.”
“Okay…uh...yesterday, we go…” It was going to be a long evening, as usual.
After class I made up my mind to give the student to Eric, who enjoyed teaching adult conversation classes; no preparation, sitting and watching the clock teaching.
“Have you done your homework?” I asked.
“Yesterday, my work very busy - go to see client,” replied my student.
“Yesterday, you were very busy because you went to see a client, yes? Past tense of go is went, past tense of is…” hold on he didn’t even use the be verb, I thought but anyway, “past tense of is, is ‘was.’” Besides he had had one week to do his homework so what did it have to do with yesterday?
“Yes, yesterday, because I go see client, I very busy.”
“I think we need to do some grammar practice, concentrate on making our sentences more accurate. I give you a verb and you give me a past tense sentence.”
“I know past tense. I want study conversation.”
“This is conversation,” I said.
One of the problems of trying to keep a busy schedule was this kind of student. I had an empty slot on a Tuesday night and had taken an adult student against my better judgment. I didn’t like to teach adults because: classes were slow, they didn’t learn as fast as kids, and, most importantly, when they kept making the same mistake or didn’t do their homework, you just had to smile sweetly, because they were adults after all. Adults could be broken down further: housewives, students and women in general came to learn. This type of student was the worse kind: male, forties, businessman; they were always late, never did their homework, and invariably wanted to study conversation. This was the great buzzword that got adult Taiwanese flocking into schools by the thousands handing over their hard earned cash: ‘You studied writing and grammar in schools so all you need is a chance to practice. We will get you a foreign teacher for conversation,’ went the sales pitch. Unfortunately, they had only learnt how to write ok grammar. Their terrible bad habits when they spoke could only be ironed out by relearning the rules and oral practice, something they were convinced was unnecessary.
“So what does your company do?”
“My company sell car brake.”
“Your company sells car brakes. Who do you sell to? Where are your clients from?”
“Many client! Yesterday, they come from Japanese.”
“You have many clients. Yesterday’s clients were from Japan. Japan is the country, Japanese is the person.”
“Okay…uh...yesterday, we go…” It was going to be a long evening, as usual.
After class I made up my mind to give the student to Eric, who enjoyed teaching adult conversation classes; no preparation, sitting and watching the clock teaching.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
English teaching V: My first attempt at an American accent
The agent Grace, who thought I was South African – and tried to give me work down south – called anyway to offer me work, but with one proviso: could I do an American accent. I said I would try.
I found the school on a one-lane wide alley opposite a community park. The center of the city was made up a number of north/south, east/west, roughly parallel, main roads which did indeed resemble motorways, but once you ducked into the maze-like alleys and lanes the buildings tailed down to only four to six storeys - and life slowed down, almost became peaceful.
Most blocks had a community park like this one: an area with slides, climbing frames, and see-saw for the kids; an outdoor matching stone table and stools and a covered area with the Chinese style red tile sloping roofs for the old people to play mahjong; and trees covering almost every square inch to protect against the sun.
The school was on the first floor of a residential building. I was quickly learning there wasn’t a distinction between commercial and residential in Taiwan. Many of the buildings were an ecosystem in itself: first floor was a bank; second, your office, third a school and doctors, and you lived on the next floor up - just below a karaoke bar.
I was actually nervous about the American bit, and now, after looking at the name of the school, also angry: it was called Harry Potter’s American Language Kindergarten. I might have to tell them exactly where Mr. Potter was from.
It didn’t get better when I went in. The walls were adorned with big pictures of Mr. Potter wearing a reverse baseball cap with his school uniform - and using his broomstick to help him fly up and dunk a basketball.
The main office had a huge black leather sofa and chairs, and a coffee table with solid chunks of tree trunk as stools - presumably half an Indonesian rainforest was now missing.
Like in most of the city the aircon was so strong mosquitos were ice skating on the river of sweat flowing down my back. It seemed you had to carry a coat for when you went indoors - the opposite of back home.
I had been met at the door by a cute mousey girl called Rowena who was wearing a grey business suit with a short skirt and rectangular glasses. She said she was the daughter of the boss. We sat down on the sofa and waited for her mother who was shouting down the phone at someone.
Her mother was a squat barrel-chested woman with a dark complexion, pug face and a bad perm like Dame Edna Edveridge; her blouse and skirt were both baggy flowing floral patterns, but clashing; I was worried, if I keep looking I would go blind. It wasn’t as if she was wearing a designer suit, but she still looked stiff like she was overdressed.
“So you work here as well?” I asked Rowena.
“No. I work for a computer company, but I help my mother - She can’t speak English.”
Marvelous, I thought, and she runs a bilingual Kindergarten.
Her mother finished shouting down someone and got off her chair. I would like to say stood up, but there only seemed to be a couple of inches difference in her height between sitting and standing. I stood up, towered over her, and smiled and dipped my head a little, waiting to sit down. It seemed we were in a smiling contest. She was looking at me like I was her long lost son, and, not to be outdone I brought my eyes into the grin. Just as my legs were about to give out, she put her hand out, palm up in the direction of the sofa gesturing for me to sit.
We all sat down and continued to smile like an old couple bonded by fifty years of love, friendship and all its upheavals.
“My mother says you look like a nice guy?” said Rowena.
“Thanks,” I said, then kicked myself for using my English accent - if they were going to find out my nationality it would be on my terms.
Last night, I sat in the hostel and actually paid attention to all the Canadians and Americans. I loosened my jaw and pulled back my lips to do the American A, and pictured John Wayne.
“Thanks,” I repeated. I guessed I sounded more like Michael Caine.
“My mother says you look very handsome,” said Rowena.
I practiced that American thanks again.
We had the standard questions:
“Did I like Taiwan?”
“Was I settling in ok?”
“Did I mind the food?”
Rowena then translated a story about how her mother had invested all her money into this school. How her mother was very poor when she was growing up and she would like to run a school because she didn’t have much opportunity to go herself. That she had had many problems with foreign teachers: she wanted an American, but she kept getting South Africans and Australians. That she couldn’t tell the difference because she didn’t speak English. But I looked like an honest guy.
“So where are you from,” said Rowena.
After that little speech I was really torn. Felt sorry for the woman, but then I caught a glimpse of Mr. Potter with a skateboard and I decided a lie for a lie.
“Mississippi, Alabama. America’s great Deep South. Have you been?”
“I see…Uh, no. I have the aunty in Florida,” said Rowena.
“Quite close then…I think.”
Then the mother made her excuses and left. That was it, it seemed: no complex questions about my teaching ability and skills.
“My mother is a nice lady,” said Rowena.
“Wonderful,” I replied, thinking ‘what the fuck has that got to do with anything? - She is employing me.’
She handed me this book with a pink alien on the front and I started thumbing through it.
“Anyway, each lesson you will be expected to teach one page,” she continued. I was looking at this page for occupations and obsessing over the American pronunciation for firefighter (fireman).
“What are the key points…to teach?” she asked.
I looked at the page trying to find some conditional clauses or the present perfect tense, but…
“The ‘be’ verb and ‘jobs’. Look, policeman, firefighter, etc, and “He is…I am…,” she interrupted.
“I see,” I replied. And it dawned on me I was going to teach four year olds.
“You are a foreigner so the kids want to have fun with you: play games with English. I know you foreigners are very creative - Like to make the education fun.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Not an introvert in the west - we can all make mold growing on an orange into a party.”
“Anyway, let’s go into the classroom and watch one of our teachers,” said Rowena. “Then you can do your demonstration.”
We took our slippers off and stepped up into the classroom. The floor was raised pinewood flooring, pinewood mini tables and chairs sat on rubber mats, and the walls were covered with alphabet cards; everywhere little Taiwanese kids ran around bumping into each other and stealing each others Gameboys. The scene made me register rumbling nerves.
“This is Craig. He is from Vancouver,” said Rowena introducing the foreign teacher.
I looked at him: blond hair, a natural stocky build, a suntan which looked like it had always been there, and a permanent squint from long exposure to a hot sun. I guessed he was Australian or South African.
“Hi,” he said. “Where are you from?”
He was South African.
I sat on a little chair, knees around my ears, fidgeting; feeling large, mulling over a few nerves. I was a reasonably outgoing guy, but I had been an accountant for the last three years, showing my character through work related jokes and pranks with my peers. Now I had to sing, ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ and make it entertaining to a bunch of kids I couldn’t communicate with…Oh, and do it with an American accent.
“You just do 15 minutes,” said Rowena who was sat next to me. “Like I tell you.”
Today’s lesson was actually animals. I had to drill the picture cards: monkey, elephant, hippo, tiger and giraffe; then teach the sentence pattern: What is it?- It is a (insert animal). I was supposed to first drill the picture cards for as long as it took for the students to remember… Then teach them the sentence pattern and how to use it by body language and suggestion…Then I was supposed to play a serious of interesting, team based games revolved around -What is it? It is a (hippo). This was all supposed to take 50 minutes or so, and I was supposed to keep them entertained with my exciting games, organize them when they didn’t speak my language, there would be no writing, just oral practice and then you were supposed to send their out of the class happy, full of English to go home and tell their parents about the nice foreigner they met.
It was suddenly my turn. I got myself up by rolling myself onto my hands to push me up, and went to the front of the class with Rowena.
“This is teacher Dan,” said Rowena.
“Hello Teacher Dan,” shouted the kids.
I smiled and waved, but my stiff shoulders and body language gave the resounding impression I didn’t want to be here. I sat down knowing I should have done more, that first impressions last, and I was already digging myself out of a deep pit.
“Okay children,” said Craig’s teacher assistant, a Taiwanese girl called Claire. “Let’s all sit in a circle here. Come on! Come on!”
I stood waiting for the circle to form. “Dan! Come here. Quick! Quick!” said Claire.
“Sorry, I was waiting for everyone to sit down,” I replied.
“Not everyone, ever, sits down! Just go. Go!”
I approached the circle of kids: one or two, having come to cooperate were looking expectantly for direction; some were playing with their pants or nose, some hitting the kid next to them, while the rest played human jack-in-the-box with the teaching assistant: they sprang up; she pushed down. I stood in the center of the circle absorbing the chaotic vibes coming my way.
“Elephant! Hippo! Monkey!” I shouted in my best American accent holding up the picture cards.
“Lower the cards,” said Craig. I was stood in the center of the circle with the cards near my chest meaning the bottom edge of the card wasn’t revealing much to the children a long way below me.
I tried again. “Elephant! Hippo! Monkey!”
“Hold the picture card up for a few seconds and then say the word slowly,” said Craig.
He had a point: best to achieve repetition before going to the next card.
“Not that slow. More natural,” said Craig.
Trying to do my American accent I was speaking like John Wayne on dope while pulling a joker like grin.
Ten minutes later. “Do the song,” said Rowena. The difficulty of getting going had broken my spirit, and I was still doing the repetition; people who had their family taken from in sudden horrific car crashes due to a lapse in their attention moved on quicker. Never mind the glazed look in their eyes and the distressed contortions of the little girl at the front who had put her faith in my teaching methods, and was desperately trying to repeat the word when her mind had unraveled long ago.
“Old MacDonald had a farm,” I said.
“Old MacDonald had…” I repeated before realizing my pitch shouldn’t be like I am on the terraces.
I slowed it down and gave up on the joker grin. Two minutes later and I had the first two lines being repeated.
My confidence was coming back but then the bell went for lunch.
I walked slowly back to the staff room with Rowena fearing the worst.
“You were a little nervous, today,” said Rowena.
I prepared myself for the worst.
“But I think you will learn. It is not often we get the American so…”
I agreed to start the next Monday. Pride was telling me I could do better. I just hoped pride was right.
I found the school on a one-lane wide alley opposite a community park. The center of the city was made up a number of north/south, east/west, roughly parallel, main roads which did indeed resemble motorways, but once you ducked into the maze-like alleys and lanes the buildings tailed down to only four to six storeys - and life slowed down, almost became peaceful.
Most blocks had a community park like this one: an area with slides, climbing frames, and see-saw for the kids; an outdoor matching stone table and stools and a covered area with the Chinese style red tile sloping roofs for the old people to play mahjong; and trees covering almost every square inch to protect against the sun.
The school was on the first floor of a residential building. I was quickly learning there wasn’t a distinction between commercial and residential in Taiwan. Many of the buildings were an ecosystem in itself: first floor was a bank; second, your office, third a school and doctors, and you lived on the next floor up - just below a karaoke bar.
I was actually nervous about the American bit, and now, after looking at the name of the school, also angry: it was called Harry Potter’s American Language Kindergarten. I might have to tell them exactly where Mr. Potter was from.
It didn’t get better when I went in. The walls were adorned with big pictures of Mr. Potter wearing a reverse baseball cap with his school uniform - and using his broomstick to help him fly up and dunk a basketball.
The main office had a huge black leather sofa and chairs, and a coffee table with solid chunks of tree trunk as stools - presumably half an Indonesian rainforest was now missing.
Like in most of the city the aircon was so strong mosquitos were ice skating on the river of sweat flowing down my back. It seemed you had to carry a coat for when you went indoors - the opposite of back home.
I had been met at the door by a cute mousey girl called Rowena who was wearing a grey business suit with a short skirt and rectangular glasses. She said she was the daughter of the boss. We sat down on the sofa and waited for her mother who was shouting down the phone at someone.
Her mother was a squat barrel-chested woman with a dark complexion, pug face and a bad perm like Dame Edna Edveridge; her blouse and skirt were both baggy flowing floral patterns, but clashing; I was worried, if I keep looking I would go blind. It wasn’t as if she was wearing a designer suit, but she still looked stiff like she was overdressed.
“So you work here as well?” I asked Rowena.
“No. I work for a computer company, but I help my mother - She can’t speak English.”
Marvelous, I thought, and she runs a bilingual Kindergarten.
Her mother finished shouting down someone and got off her chair. I would like to say stood up, but there only seemed to be a couple of inches difference in her height between sitting and standing. I stood up, towered over her, and smiled and dipped my head a little, waiting to sit down. It seemed we were in a smiling contest. She was looking at me like I was her long lost son, and, not to be outdone I brought my eyes into the grin. Just as my legs were about to give out, she put her hand out, palm up in the direction of the sofa gesturing for me to sit.
We all sat down and continued to smile like an old couple bonded by fifty years of love, friendship and all its upheavals.
“My mother says you look like a nice guy?” said Rowena.
“Thanks,” I said, then kicked myself for using my English accent - if they were going to find out my nationality it would be on my terms.
Last night, I sat in the hostel and actually paid attention to all the Canadians and Americans. I loosened my jaw and pulled back my lips to do the American A, and pictured John Wayne.
“Thanks,” I repeated. I guessed I sounded more like Michael Caine.
“My mother says you look very handsome,” said Rowena.
I practiced that American thanks again.
We had the standard questions:
“Did I like Taiwan?”
“Was I settling in ok?”
“Did I mind the food?”
Rowena then translated a story about how her mother had invested all her money into this school. How her mother was very poor when she was growing up and she would like to run a school because she didn’t have much opportunity to go herself. That she had had many problems with foreign teachers: she wanted an American, but she kept getting South Africans and Australians. That she couldn’t tell the difference because she didn’t speak English. But I looked like an honest guy.
“So where are you from,” said Rowena.
After that little speech I was really torn. Felt sorry for the woman, but then I caught a glimpse of Mr. Potter with a skateboard and I decided a lie for a lie.
“Mississippi, Alabama. America’s great Deep South. Have you been?”
“I see…Uh, no. I have the aunty in Florida,” said Rowena.
“Quite close then…I think.”
Then the mother made her excuses and left. That was it, it seemed: no complex questions about my teaching ability and skills.
“My mother is a nice lady,” said Rowena.
“Wonderful,” I replied, thinking ‘what the fuck has that got to do with anything? - She is employing me.’
She handed me this book with a pink alien on the front and I started thumbing through it.
“Anyway, each lesson you will be expected to teach one page,” she continued. I was looking at this page for occupations and obsessing over the American pronunciation for firefighter (fireman).
“What are the key points…to teach?” she asked.
I looked at the page trying to find some conditional clauses or the present perfect tense, but…
“The ‘be’ verb and ‘jobs’. Look, policeman, firefighter, etc, and “He is…I am…,” she interrupted.
“I see,” I replied. And it dawned on me I was going to teach four year olds.
“You are a foreigner so the kids want to have fun with you: play games with English. I know you foreigners are very creative - Like to make the education fun.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Not an introvert in the west - we can all make mold growing on an orange into a party.”
“Anyway, let’s go into the classroom and watch one of our teachers,” said Rowena. “Then you can do your demonstration.”
We took our slippers off and stepped up into the classroom. The floor was raised pinewood flooring, pinewood mini tables and chairs sat on rubber mats, and the walls were covered with alphabet cards; everywhere little Taiwanese kids ran around bumping into each other and stealing each others Gameboys. The scene made me register rumbling nerves.
“This is Craig. He is from Vancouver,” said Rowena introducing the foreign teacher.
I looked at him: blond hair, a natural stocky build, a suntan which looked like it had always been there, and a permanent squint from long exposure to a hot sun. I guessed he was Australian or South African.
“Hi,” he said. “Where are you from?”
He was South African.
I sat on a little chair, knees around my ears, fidgeting; feeling large, mulling over a few nerves. I was a reasonably outgoing guy, but I had been an accountant for the last three years, showing my character through work related jokes and pranks with my peers. Now I had to sing, ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ and make it entertaining to a bunch of kids I couldn’t communicate with…Oh, and do it with an American accent.
“You just do 15 minutes,” said Rowena who was sat next to me. “Like I tell you.”
Today’s lesson was actually animals. I had to drill the picture cards: monkey, elephant, hippo, tiger and giraffe; then teach the sentence pattern: What is it?- It is a (insert animal). I was supposed to first drill the picture cards for as long as it took for the students to remember… Then teach them the sentence pattern and how to use it by body language and suggestion…Then I was supposed to play a serious of interesting, team based games revolved around -What is it? It is a (hippo). This was all supposed to take 50 minutes or so, and I was supposed to keep them entertained with my exciting games, organize them when they didn’t speak my language, there would be no writing, just oral practice and then you were supposed to send their out of the class happy, full of English to go home and tell their parents about the nice foreigner they met.
It was suddenly my turn. I got myself up by rolling myself onto my hands to push me up, and went to the front of the class with Rowena.
“This is teacher Dan,” said Rowena.
“Hello Teacher Dan,” shouted the kids.
I smiled and waved, but my stiff shoulders and body language gave the resounding impression I didn’t want to be here. I sat down knowing I should have done more, that first impressions last, and I was already digging myself out of a deep pit.
“Okay children,” said Craig’s teacher assistant, a Taiwanese girl called Claire. “Let’s all sit in a circle here. Come on! Come on!”
I stood waiting for the circle to form. “Dan! Come here. Quick! Quick!” said Claire.
“Sorry, I was waiting for everyone to sit down,” I replied.
“Not everyone, ever, sits down! Just go. Go!”
I approached the circle of kids: one or two, having come to cooperate were looking expectantly for direction; some were playing with their pants or nose, some hitting the kid next to them, while the rest played human jack-in-the-box with the teaching assistant: they sprang up; she pushed down. I stood in the center of the circle absorbing the chaotic vibes coming my way.
“Elephant! Hippo! Monkey!” I shouted in my best American accent holding up the picture cards.
“Lower the cards,” said Craig. I was stood in the center of the circle with the cards near my chest meaning the bottom edge of the card wasn’t revealing much to the children a long way below me.
I tried again. “Elephant! Hippo! Monkey!”
“Hold the picture card up for a few seconds and then say the word slowly,” said Craig.
He had a point: best to achieve repetition before going to the next card.
“Not that slow. More natural,” said Craig.
Trying to do my American accent I was speaking like John Wayne on dope while pulling a joker like grin.
Ten minutes later. “Do the song,” said Rowena. The difficulty of getting going had broken my spirit, and I was still doing the repetition; people who had their family taken from in sudden horrific car crashes due to a lapse in their attention moved on quicker. Never mind the glazed look in their eyes and the distressed contortions of the little girl at the front who had put her faith in my teaching methods, and was desperately trying to repeat the word when her mind had unraveled long ago.
“Old MacDonald had a farm,” I said.
“Old MacDonald had…” I repeated before realizing my pitch shouldn’t be like I am on the terraces.
I slowed it down and gave up on the joker grin. Two minutes later and I had the first two lines being repeated.
My confidence was coming back but then the bell went for lunch.
I walked slowly back to the staff room with Rowena fearing the worst.
“You were a little nervous, today,” said Rowena.
I prepared myself for the worst.
“But I think you will learn. It is not often we get the American so…”
I agreed to start the next Monday. Pride was telling me I could do better. I just hoped pride was right.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
English teaching IV: It is all about the accent, California beach bum trumps Oxford graduate
Everyone knows that the Taiwanese love the American accent. I have heard it is better these days, but many years ago a British accent was a no-no, especially if you had a regional accent.
This is a true tale of what happened when I went to visit an infamous English teaching agent with a Swiss guy I had met in the hostel.
Marcus – the Swiss guy – and I took the lift down from the sixth floor of the hostel and squeezed past the scooters the other side of the metal door. This lane was typical for the older parts of town built around twenty years ago: four to six storey buildings either side, the lane about the width of two cars, the outside of the buildings dirty cement or bathroom tiles, drain pipe thick piles of wires running outside, no pavement, a storey-high wall running the length of the street, punctuated by wide red doors to access the second floors and above, and a smaller door to access the first floor. In most cases the people on the first floor had knocked down the wall, put in a pull down metal door, and turned the space in front of their front window into a car park. Most of the windows had large aluminum bar frames, and if we had a balcony it had been made into another room, and fitted with dark glass and wire mesh to protect against the mosquitoes and sun.
I guessed the advertising slogans read: “Experience the true wonder of underground living - above.”
It was only March but with the sun out we were already beginning to sweat - and it wasn't midday yet. The buildings on either side of the lane cast shadows over the side of the lane so we deliberately walked down the center of the lane trying to get as much of the sun as possible. Opposite a woman came out of a red metal doorway wearing a sun visor, before putting up a parasol - It wasn't the first time we had seen a woman with an umbrella; the sun appeared to be the enemy in Taiwan.
As we approached the main road the noise of scooters and cars started to pound in our heads, and the sun disappeared behind overlapping shadows from fifteen storey plus building - building of this height were the staple of the main roads.
"You want to get a bus?" asked Marcus.
Taxis were cheap, I knew, but at some point you had to get used to the bus system. "We should do really," I replied.
We both looked at the buses swooping in to pick people up. We had done some rudimentary research of the map of Taipei and knew roughly where we would be getting off, but still we would have to sit at the front of the both straining their necks for road names, getting up every five minutes to show the piece of paper to the driver. That was another thing: while they had met some people who spoke English, blue collar workers - taxi drivers, bus drivers, shop assistants, and most restaurant staff didn't. It wasn't easy to get about the city.
"Best not to be late today," said Marcus. "Want to make a good impression."
"Good point," I replied.
Marcus walked to the corner of the lane and palm down flagged down a yellow cab; it broke instantly causing a couple of motorcycles into emergency stops. One of them tapped on the driver’s window and stared at him, and the driver stared back disinterested, as if to say ‘what are you complaining about, you are not actually dead.’
“Wai guo ren (foreigner),” shouted the taxi driver in a panic. “Ne huei jiang jong wen ma (You can speak Chinese?)”
“I can speak the piece of paper, mate,” I replied.
The driver dropped them off on a lane very much like where we lived, and we wandered down it looking bemused - we had expected it to be in an office building on a main street, not in a residential building, and from there the term 'fly by night' or dodgy came to mind.
The lane was compounding the feeling we had from the phone call yesterday: we had called up and she hadn’t said ‘Grace’s English Teaching Agency’ in a bright sunny tone. It had been - ‘Yes??’- to which we replied - We are looking for teaching work - and there had been silence, to which we had asked politely if we could come to her office, and she had repeatedly for the fifth time the question about how we knew her. Finally, she had quickly given us an address…3rd floor, Alley 34, Lane 12, Fu Yang or something Road, and quickly put down the phone. And we had desperately tried to remember the address when it could have been Fu or Hu or Yang or Chang or Yong…God it was hard. It didn’t matter as everyone in the hostel knew her address, and the girl behind the desk wrote it down.
We rang the downstairs buzzer on number twenty-six. "Yes," came a voice in that same suspicious tone.
"We are here about teaching work," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"Can we come up?"
"Who told you to come here?"
"You did - We called you yesterday."
"I see…Hmm…okay."
She pressed the buzzer and we made their way up the dirty dusty stairs, pass the smell of foot odor from shoes and plastic slippers left outside on doormats outside iron bar frame doors. Burglary was supposed to be minimal yet everyone had a steel iron bar frame door on the outside of their apartment door.
We took off their shoes and went inside the office.
The inside of her office didn't reassure us: white faded walls, one desk for her and a couple of wooden classrooms chairs for them to sit on. There didn't appear to be anything to lose if she had to run out the door this second with all she could carry in one hand - and our salaries in the other.
"Hi. Nice to meet you," I said enthusiastically but she didn't respond.
I thought Chinese people were supposed to be mannered. I had been preparing to swear 100% loyalty to my first Master, but I was quickly finding out that was not always the case. From what I had heard Masters were regularly casting pupils into the wilderness without their last month's pay, and pupils were running off with the Master's best clients.
"So where are you from?" asked Grace.
It was my big moment to pretend to say I was an American. I prepared myself to say Mississippi, but it stuck in my throat to say I was American. The English invented the language didn't we? - How could he possibly be the one with the accent?
"Where are you from? South Africa?" she asked.
"England," I blurted out thrown by her suggestion.
"Really? You have the unusual accent?” she pushed.
I got my passport out of my pocket. “I am English. Here. Have a look at my passport.”
“Yes, that is good you have an English passport now. How long you live in the England?”
“Almost all of it - The accent is from my parents,” I replied smiling again, refusing to lose my temper. It seemed my west of England accent was destined to be patronized wherever I went.
“Anyway, when you go to the teaching demonstration, maybe, you take the passport. With your accent I think the school like to see,” said Grace.
"English comes from England," I said now getting a little annoyed.
"Yes, I know," she said like she was just trying to be polite. "But Taiwan likes the American English. Many students won't accept you."
"Americans have the accent -" I wanted to say, there was no such thing as American English, but I decided to retreat; I had to lose this battle, if I wanted to win the war.
“And you…uh…Marcus…Where are you from?” she asked. Marcus had to come to Amy because he was Swiss, and therefore unable to produce a passport of a native English speaking country and work legally.
“I am American…Alaska,” replied Marcus. He had chosen Alaska because he needed to name a place in America she hadn’t gone to -- Grace spoke good English and this business was a profitable one, so he guessed she had spent some time in the ‘Land of Freedom.’ It was a rule of thumb: if Taiwanese had enough money, they had been to America, and he didn’t want to find out they might have had the same teachers or gone to the same restaurants.
“Yes, that is good. I study in Seattle for three years,” she replied.
Marcus let out a little sigh of relief. I, for my part, sat impassive enjoying the irony of Marcus’s new national identity and the implications for myself.
“Uh…So how do you know about me?” Grace asked them suddenly as if the question should have been asked earlier, and all of what had gone before was pointless.
“Some people in the hostel recommended you,” replied John.
“What did we say?”
“They said you are a good agent,” chipped in Marcus while thinking they said you were the last chance saloon of desperados like us.
Amy moved on satisfied we were diplomats. “So you know each other?”
“Just met in the hostel”
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“At least a year.” We had been told to say this and that it was a waste of time: she wasn’t going to train them and there was no work permit or contract being offered, but you still had to go through this lie. She wanted to know you weren’t going to desert your students and go back to Thailand and lie on the beach for at least a year. Again, pretty pointless as Amy’s teacher/student relationships usually didn’t last a year.
“So you two want to teach English?” Grace knew this was a stupid question, but….
“Yes,” I replied before it was too late.
“I am a teacher, I taught in Japan for 1 year,” replied Marcus.
Amy was warming to Marcus. She knew that nobody who came to her ever had experience (it wasn’t the point, in fact, that would mean they wouldn’t stay long) but she wanted to see who would adapt quickly to lying…uh…sorry, to teaching, that was.
“You teach English before Dan?” I was stumped, realizing I had missed the boat with the lie, but telling the truth wouldn’t help either.
“I have never taught English, but I think I can do it because I have lots of work experience, including training,” I snapped before sitting back to let the shame of my own stupidity wash through me like a giant wave.
“Okay,” said Grace after a brief silence in which I waited to be thrown out of her office. “Marcus you are no problem because you have the American accent, but Dan I not want to waste your time so I explain to you. You say you are English, and you know Taiwan like the American accent. You are the good teacher, I can feel...but seventy, eighty percent of my work is for the American or Canadian. You know if you want to work a lot of hours it is hard. I can give only give you a few students, and one is here and the other there. You know you cannot buy a motorcycle so it is very hard to get around this city. I have a job for you in the Chiayi, that is in the south of Taiwan. They don’t care the accent there, as long as you can speak some English. You also get the free place to stay, good salary…it is very easy to save money.”
“Thank you, I’ll think it over if I may,” I replied smiling wider than ever, almost about to break out in laughter. I had been told she would try and push a job in the south of Taiwan on me, but I had also been told if I thought Taipei was a little different, I hadn’t seen anything yet. I had no intention of taking the job in the south.
I started to laugh again because the ironies were just too many to mention, the biggest being Marcus was from Switzerland, and by virtue of his English teacher being American when he was young, was now eminently more employable than myself. I left shaking my head, fighting off a cynicism that had people looking down on me for speaking with an English accent.
From now on I would definitely pretend to be an American.
This is a true tale of what happened when I went to visit an infamous English teaching agent with a Swiss guy I had met in the hostel.
Marcus – the Swiss guy – and I took the lift down from the sixth floor of the hostel and squeezed past the scooters the other side of the metal door. This lane was typical for the older parts of town built around twenty years ago: four to six storey buildings either side, the lane about the width of two cars, the outside of the buildings dirty cement or bathroom tiles, drain pipe thick piles of wires running outside, no pavement, a storey-high wall running the length of the street, punctuated by wide red doors to access the second floors and above, and a smaller door to access the first floor. In most cases the people on the first floor had knocked down the wall, put in a pull down metal door, and turned the space in front of their front window into a car park. Most of the windows had large aluminum bar frames, and if we had a balcony it had been made into another room, and fitted with dark glass and wire mesh to protect against the mosquitoes and sun.
I guessed the advertising slogans read: “Experience the true wonder of underground living - above.”
It was only March but with the sun out we were already beginning to sweat - and it wasn't midday yet. The buildings on either side of the lane cast shadows over the side of the lane so we deliberately walked down the center of the lane trying to get as much of the sun as possible. Opposite a woman came out of a red metal doorway wearing a sun visor, before putting up a parasol - It wasn't the first time we had seen a woman with an umbrella; the sun appeared to be the enemy in Taiwan.
As we approached the main road the noise of scooters and cars started to pound in our heads, and the sun disappeared behind overlapping shadows from fifteen storey plus building - building of this height were the staple of the main roads.
"You want to get a bus?" asked Marcus.
Taxis were cheap, I knew, but at some point you had to get used to the bus system. "We should do really," I replied.
We both looked at the buses swooping in to pick people up. We had done some rudimentary research of the map of Taipei and knew roughly where we would be getting off, but still we would have to sit at the front of the both straining their necks for road names, getting up every five minutes to show the piece of paper to the driver. That was another thing: while they had met some people who spoke English, blue collar workers - taxi drivers, bus drivers, shop assistants, and most restaurant staff didn't. It wasn't easy to get about the city.
"Best not to be late today," said Marcus. "Want to make a good impression."
"Good point," I replied.
Marcus walked to the corner of the lane and palm down flagged down a yellow cab; it broke instantly causing a couple of motorcycles into emergency stops. One of them tapped on the driver’s window and stared at him, and the driver stared back disinterested, as if to say ‘what are you complaining about, you are not actually dead.’
“Wai guo ren (foreigner),” shouted the taxi driver in a panic. “Ne huei jiang jong wen ma (You can speak Chinese?)”
“I can speak the piece of paper, mate,” I replied.
The driver dropped them off on a lane very much like where we lived, and we wandered down it looking bemused - we had expected it to be in an office building on a main street, not in a residential building, and from there the term 'fly by night' or dodgy came to mind.
The lane was compounding the feeling we had from the phone call yesterday: we had called up and she hadn’t said ‘Grace’s English Teaching Agency’ in a bright sunny tone. It had been - ‘Yes??’- to which we replied - We are looking for teaching work - and there had been silence, to which we had asked politely if we could come to her office, and she had repeatedly for the fifth time the question about how we knew her. Finally, she had quickly given us an address…3rd floor, Alley 34, Lane 12, Fu Yang or something Road, and quickly put down the phone. And we had desperately tried to remember the address when it could have been Fu or Hu or Yang or Chang or Yong…God it was hard. It didn’t matter as everyone in the hostel knew her address, and the girl behind the desk wrote it down.
We rang the downstairs buzzer on number twenty-six. "Yes," came a voice in that same suspicious tone.
"We are here about teaching work," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"Can we come up?"
"Who told you to come here?"
"You did - We called you yesterday."
"I see…Hmm…okay."
She pressed the buzzer and we made their way up the dirty dusty stairs, pass the smell of foot odor from shoes and plastic slippers left outside on doormats outside iron bar frame doors. Burglary was supposed to be minimal yet everyone had a steel iron bar frame door on the outside of their apartment door.
We took off their shoes and went inside the office.
The inside of her office didn't reassure us: white faded walls, one desk for her and a couple of wooden classrooms chairs for them to sit on. There didn't appear to be anything to lose if she had to run out the door this second with all she could carry in one hand - and our salaries in the other.
"Hi. Nice to meet you," I said enthusiastically but she didn't respond.
I thought Chinese people were supposed to be mannered. I had been preparing to swear 100% loyalty to my first Master, but I was quickly finding out that was not always the case. From what I had heard Masters were regularly casting pupils into the wilderness without their last month's pay, and pupils were running off with the Master's best clients.
"So where are you from?" asked Grace.
It was my big moment to pretend to say I was an American. I prepared myself to say Mississippi, but it stuck in my throat to say I was American. The English invented the language didn't we? - How could he possibly be the one with the accent?
"Where are you from? South Africa?" she asked.
"England," I blurted out thrown by her suggestion.
"Really? You have the unusual accent?” she pushed.
I got my passport out of my pocket. “I am English. Here. Have a look at my passport.”
“Yes, that is good you have an English passport now. How long you live in the England?”
“Almost all of it - The accent is from my parents,” I replied smiling again, refusing to lose my temper. It seemed my west of England accent was destined to be patronized wherever I went.
“Anyway, when you go to the teaching demonstration, maybe, you take the passport. With your accent I think the school like to see,” said Grace.
"English comes from England," I said now getting a little annoyed.
"Yes, I know," she said like she was just trying to be polite. "But Taiwan likes the American English. Many students won't accept you."
"Americans have the accent -" I wanted to say, there was no such thing as American English, but I decided to retreat; I had to lose this battle, if I wanted to win the war.
“And you…uh…Marcus…Where are you from?” she asked. Marcus had to come to Amy because he was Swiss, and therefore unable to produce a passport of a native English speaking country and work legally.
“I am American…Alaska,” replied Marcus. He had chosen Alaska because he needed to name a place in America she hadn’t gone to -- Grace spoke good English and this business was a profitable one, so he guessed she had spent some time in the ‘Land of Freedom.’ It was a rule of thumb: if Taiwanese had enough money, they had been to America, and he didn’t want to find out they might have had the same teachers or gone to the same restaurants.
“Yes, that is good. I study in Seattle for three years,” she replied.
Marcus let out a little sigh of relief. I, for my part, sat impassive enjoying the irony of Marcus’s new national identity and the implications for myself.
“Uh…So how do you know about me?” Grace asked them suddenly as if the question should have been asked earlier, and all of what had gone before was pointless.
“Some people in the hostel recommended you,” replied John.
“What did we say?”
“They said you are a good agent,” chipped in Marcus while thinking they said you were the last chance saloon of desperados like us.
Amy moved on satisfied we were diplomats. “So you know each other?”
“Just met in the hostel”
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“At least a year.” We had been told to say this and that it was a waste of time: she wasn’t going to train them and there was no work permit or contract being offered, but you still had to go through this lie. She wanted to know you weren’t going to desert your students and go back to Thailand and lie on the beach for at least a year. Again, pretty pointless as Amy’s teacher/student relationships usually didn’t last a year.
“So you two want to teach English?” Grace knew this was a stupid question, but….
“Yes,” I replied before it was too late.
“I am a teacher, I taught in Japan for 1 year,” replied Marcus.
Amy was warming to Marcus. She knew that nobody who came to her ever had experience (it wasn’t the point, in fact, that would mean they wouldn’t stay long) but she wanted to see who would adapt quickly to lying…uh…sorry, to teaching, that was.
“You teach English before Dan?” I was stumped, realizing I had missed the boat with the lie, but telling the truth wouldn’t help either.
“I have never taught English, but I think I can do it because I have lots of work experience, including training,” I snapped before sitting back to let the shame of my own stupidity wash through me like a giant wave.
“Okay,” said Grace after a brief silence in which I waited to be thrown out of her office. “Marcus you are no problem because you have the American accent, but Dan I not want to waste your time so I explain to you. You say you are English, and you know Taiwan like the American accent. You are the good teacher, I can feel...but seventy, eighty percent of my work is for the American or Canadian. You know if you want to work a lot of hours it is hard. I can give only give you a few students, and one is here and the other there. You know you cannot buy a motorcycle so it is very hard to get around this city. I have a job for you in the Chiayi, that is in the south of Taiwan. They don’t care the accent there, as long as you can speak some English. You also get the free place to stay, good salary…it is very easy to save money.”
“Thank you, I’ll think it over if I may,” I replied smiling wider than ever, almost about to break out in laughter. I had been told she would try and push a job in the south of Taiwan on me, but I had also been told if I thought Taipei was a little different, I hadn’t seen anything yet. I had no intention of taking the job in the south.
I started to laugh again because the ironies were just too many to mention, the biggest being Marcus was from Switzerland, and by virtue of his English teacher being American when he was young, was now eminently more employable than myself. I left shaking my head, fighting off a cynicism that had people looking down on me for speaking with an English accent.
From now on I would definitely pretend to be an American.
Monday, February 23, 2009
English teaching I: Finding out you actually had to teach
Like a lot of people I hadn’t planned to come to Taiwan. I was traveling through Asia and was going to work in a bar in Hong Kong, where I met a guy called Neil Parsons, who had lots of wonderful stories – secondhand! - of how easy it was going to be to teach English in Taiwan and how much money we were going to earn.
A few weeks later I was on a plane to Taipei completely ignoring the fact I had no interest in teaching.
It had taken one interview to find the painful truth:
“So, you have taught before?” asked Maggie Hsu, the manager of the Kindergarten we had gone to for an interview.
Neil and I hesitated for a second, still groggy from the wake up call of hundreds of little kids running around our feet screaming. Can I say no and get training? - was running through our minds, but of course we said, Yes.
There was a brief awkward momentary silence in which she expected us to expand, drop in a few anecdotes, impart stories of our experience; she received nothing, realized that we had never taught before, and adjusted appropriately; no doubt, she had experienced this situation a hundred times before. If she had had four qualified candidates through the door that day, she would have taken great pleasure in asking them sticky questions about teaching methods, games and materials, but her school was not in the city center where most foreigners wanted to work, and she charged the kids’ parents extra to have a foreign English teacher so this, long ago, had become her lot.
She continued, “Now, every class is fifty minutes, at the start you can take register, and at the end ten minutes for homework. You have a Chinese assistant teacher...Don’t worry at first we will probably scare of you but we will get used to you. This is the book you will be using…”
I wanted to challenge her about the scared bit: we were the scared ones, but we did see her point: we were large, and, due to a fear, were projecting an image not unfamiliar to a lot of animals on the Discovery Channel when marking territory.
Maggie hadn’t finished: “Anyway, each lesson you will be expected to teach one page.”
Then not confident we could get there by ourselves, she had taken the book from me, opened it to page five and handed it back. “Here,” she continued. “What are the key points...To teach?”
Again, not wanting to waste her own time she quickly explained: “The ‘be’ verb and ‘jobs'. Look: policeman, firefighter, etc, and “He is…, I am, You are…Anyway, as the foreigner teacher you will have to make the kids practice, to be able to say this sentence. You are a foreigner so the kids want to have fun with you - play games with English. I know you foreigners are very creative.”
We didn’t feel very creative.
“Anyway, let’s go into the classroom and watch one of our teachers.”
And so we took off our shoes, went into the classroom, and sat with our knees around our ears on small wooden chairs. The class we then watched was all Playschool and Sesame School - an enthusiastic, smiley teacher and eager little kids wanting to dance. It hadn’t been anything like French from school where we had just sat on chairs and copied words from the board, with the teacher using the threat of failure as motivation. We had kind of hoped it would be the same here - We had had confidence our teaching skills stretched that far.
We cursed the stereotype that Westerners were imaginative and creative.
We promised to come back another day and do the teaching demonstration.
Two days, and a little more investigation later, my friend, Neil, had taken a plane to Australia because he had found you had to be a little further up past white on the evolutionary scale to teach than originally expected.
“It isn’t for me,” he had said. I had sensed that teaching wouldn’t be so easy before he had left, but hey, I wouldn’t be the first person on the earth to fall for the one about the normal rules don’t apply when you go abroad.
A few weeks later I was on a plane to Taipei completely ignoring the fact I had no interest in teaching.
It had taken one interview to find the painful truth:
“So, you have taught before?” asked Maggie Hsu, the manager of the Kindergarten we had gone to for an interview.
Neil and I hesitated for a second, still groggy from the wake up call of hundreds of little kids running around our feet screaming. Can I say no and get training? - was running through our minds, but of course we said, Yes.
There was a brief awkward momentary silence in which she expected us to expand, drop in a few anecdotes, impart stories of our experience; she received nothing, realized that we had never taught before, and adjusted appropriately; no doubt, she had experienced this situation a hundred times before. If she had had four qualified candidates through the door that day, she would have taken great pleasure in asking them sticky questions about teaching methods, games and materials, but her school was not in the city center where most foreigners wanted to work, and she charged the kids’ parents extra to have a foreign English teacher so this, long ago, had become her lot.
She continued, “Now, every class is fifty minutes, at the start you can take register, and at the end ten minutes for homework. You have a Chinese assistant teacher...Don’t worry at first we will probably scare of you but we will get used to you. This is the book you will be using…”
I wanted to challenge her about the scared bit: we were the scared ones, but we did see her point: we were large, and, due to a fear, were projecting an image not unfamiliar to a lot of animals on the Discovery Channel when marking territory.
Maggie hadn’t finished: “Anyway, each lesson you will be expected to teach one page.”
Then not confident we could get there by ourselves, she had taken the book from me, opened it to page five and handed it back. “Here,” she continued. “What are the key points...To teach?”
Again, not wanting to waste her own time she quickly explained: “The ‘be’ verb and ‘jobs'. Look: policeman, firefighter, etc, and “He is…, I am, You are…Anyway, as the foreigner teacher you will have to make the kids practice, to be able to say this sentence. You are a foreigner so the kids want to have fun with you - play games with English. I know you foreigners are very creative.”
We didn’t feel very creative.
“Anyway, let’s go into the classroom and watch one of our teachers.”
And so we took off our shoes, went into the classroom, and sat with our knees around our ears on small wooden chairs. The class we then watched was all Playschool and Sesame School - an enthusiastic, smiley teacher and eager little kids wanting to dance. It hadn’t been anything like French from school where we had just sat on chairs and copied words from the board, with the teacher using the threat of failure as motivation. We had kind of hoped it would be the same here - We had had confidence our teaching skills stretched that far.
We cursed the stereotype that Westerners were imaginative and creative.
We promised to come back another day and do the teaching demonstration.
Two days, and a little more investigation later, my friend, Neil, had taken a plane to Australia because he had found you had to be a little further up past white on the evolutionary scale to teach than originally expected.
“It isn’t for me,” he had said. I had sensed that teaching wouldn’t be so easy before he had left, but hey, I wouldn’t be the first person on the earth to fall for the one about the normal rules don’t apply when you go abroad.
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