HUNGRY & HOMELESS.
I said to her, “Yes English, yes job!”
The students in my English class came from all over the world. Since I had trouble pronouncing and memorizing their names, I tried to memorize their faces. It was not easy because black people looked alike, as did the whites and Hispanics. My classmates told me that they had a similar problem—to them Oriental people all looked the same.
A man from Italy with dark wavy hair sat on my right, and a beautiful high-nosed girl on my left was from Greece. With a lot of hand motions and make-believe words, we tried to communicate. Unfortunately, nobody understood anybody.
Our teachers were Americans. One was heavyset with curly blonde hair and the other slender with short dark-brown hair. I made it easier for myself by calling one Light Head and the other Dark Head. I secretly gave names to my classmates. I called the Italian man Michelangelo and the Greek girl Goddess Helena. I called another Middle Eastern–looking man Ali Baba, and a Russian Comrade Lenin.
What fascinated me was not the way the teachers taught, but what they taught. For example, the textbook featured a world that seemed unreal to me. It described an American small town where all the residentscould vote and the people decided whether to give permission to a developer to build a shopping mall near the town square. Besides the town’s mayor, there were also other elected officials.
Where I came from, everyone was considered “a bolt on the Communist machine.” Unless you wanted to be arrested and spend the rest of your life in a prison or labor camp, you wouldn’t ever voice your opinion against the authorities. I asked if the world described in the textbook was an accurate reflection of American reality. The teacher, Dark Head, turned to me and said, “Pretty much.”
I didn’t want to be too hard on my teachers, but I did want my money’s worth. I was unsatisfied by the speed of the teaching. The teachers didn’t press for results and allowed the class to run at its own pace. They assigned little homework, and only a few students turned in the work that was assigned. The teachers were okay with that, as if they didn’t care. I seemed to be the only one who really drilled at the grammar.
Miss Light Head suffered a cold for several days. She carried a box that looked as if it had toilet paper in it. She called it “tissues.” She kept sneezing. It made me want to laugh when I saw her cover her nose with toilet paper.
Each time she would blow her nose she would say two words: “Excuse me.” I wondered why. There was nothing to be excused for—you couldn’t help it when you sneezed.
In China, in order to ask to be excused, you had to commit a crime, such as wipe your behind with newsprint that had Mao’s portrait on it, as my mother had once done accidentally. My mother didn’t mean disrespect. She wasn’t plotting an anti-Mao event. She was simply out of toilet paper and used the newspaper instead. It was hard to avoid Mao, whose portrait was printed on every page.
I found “excuse me” very useful. It was almost like saying hello. You would say it not only when you sneezed, but also when you entered a building, joined a line, walked past someone, or stepped off a train. I started to practice saying “Excuse me.”
Then I couldn’t stop saying it. “Excuse me,” I said to the man who opened the door for me. “Excuse me,” I said to the school janitor. People gave me the friendliest looks when I said “Excuse me.” I loved saying “Excuse me.”
I didn’t mind Miss Light Head’s “excuse me,” but I did mind that she let the students do the teaching. She seemed exhausted by her sneezing and excuse me’s. She sat in front of her desk, and the language cripples took over the class. I didn’t pay to listen to the cripples!
Michelangelo loved to express himself in class. He had a thick Italian accent and would take forever to complete one sentence. Although I
I said to her, “Yes English, yes job!”
The students in my English class came from all over the world. Since I had trouble pronouncing and memorizing their names, I tried to memorize their faces. It was not easy because black people looked alike, as did the whites and Hispanics. My classmates told me that they had a similar problem—to them Oriental people all looked the same.
A man from Italy with dark wavy hair sat on my right, and a beautiful high-nosed girl on my left was from Greece. With a lot of hand motions and make-believe words, we tried to communicate. Unfortunately, nobody understood anybody.
Our teachers were Americans. One was heavyset with curly blonde hair and the other slender with short dark-brown hair. I made it easier for myself by calling one Light Head and the other Dark Head. I secretly gave names to my classmates. I called the Italian man Michelangelo and the Greek girl Goddess Helena. I called another Middle Eastern–looking man Ali Baba, and a Russian Comrade Lenin.
What fascinated me was not the way the teachers taught, but what they taught. For example, the textbook featured a world that seemed unreal to me. It described an American small town where all the residentscould vote and the people decided whether to give permission to a developer to build a shopping mall near the town square. Besides the town’s mayor, there were also other elected officials.
Where I came from, everyone was considered “a bolt on the Communist machine.” Unless you wanted to be arrested and spend the rest of your life in a prison or labor camp, you wouldn’t ever voice your opinion against the authorities. I asked if the world described in the textbook was an accurate reflection of American reality. The teacher, Dark Head, turned to me and said, “Pretty much.”
I didn’t want to be too hard on my teachers, but I did want my money’s worth. I was unsatisfied by the speed of the teaching. The teachers didn’t press for results and allowed the class to run at its own pace. They assigned little homework, and only a few students turned in the work that was assigned. The teachers were okay with that, as if they didn’t care. I seemed to be the only one who really drilled at the grammar.
Miss Light Head suffered a cold for several days. She carried a box that looked as if it had toilet paper in it. She called it “tissues.” She kept sneezing. It made me want to laugh when I saw her cover her nose with toilet paper.
Each time she would blow her nose she would say two words: “Excuse me.” I wondered why. There was nothing to be excused for—you couldn’t help it when you sneezed.
In China, in order to ask to be excused, you had to commit a crime, such as wipe your behind with newsprint that had Mao’s portrait on it, as my mother had once done accidentally. My mother didn’t mean disrespect. She wasn’t plotting an anti-Mao event. She was simply out of toilet paper and used the newspaper instead. It was hard to avoid Mao, whose portrait was printed on every page.
I found “excuse me” very useful. It was almost like saying hello. You would say it not only when you sneezed, but also when you entered a building, joined a line, walked past someone, or stepped off a train. I started to practice saying “Excuse me.”
Then I couldn’t stop saying it. “Excuse me,” I said to the man who opened the door for me. “Excuse me,” I said to the school janitor. People gave me the friendliest looks when I said “Excuse me.” I loved saying “Excuse me.”
I didn’t mind Miss Light Head’s “excuse me,” but I did mind that she let the students do the teaching. She seemed exhausted by her sneezing and excuse me’s. She sat in front of her desk, and the language cripples took over the class. I didn’t pay to listen to the cripples!
Michelangelo loved to express himself in class. He had a thick Italian accent and would take forever to complete one sentence. Although I
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