“…And finally, I think that you should all learn some Chinese.” Ms. Yao was finishing her introductory remarks. Most of the foreign teachers were there in the administration building’s conference room, listening or appearing to listen on this Sunday morning. In truth, there usually wasn’t too much variation to these meetings: meandering introductory pleasantries from somebody somewhere higher than ground level on the English Department totem pole, followed by a stop-and-go outline of what was needed to be done given by somebody, not on the totem pole, who had been cornered into acting as liaison between the English Department and the foreign teaching staff. However, some things were slightly different this time. I’d gotten one of the eight Jiangsu Friendship awards given out to the foreign staff each year, something I will not deny I had coveted (you only need to be stiffed once to fully appreciate the honor). Beyond this, it appeared that the rumor I’d heard – that Chinese classes were going to be offered at the university – might, in fact, be true. When one of the assistant deans had made this general announcement, people perked up a little bit, including myself. I had asked him when they’d be. “Sometime in March.” Pressing on, I’d asked if he had any idea exactly when – say, days and times. “Later. Later. Send me an e-mail.” Conversation over. I’ll send an e-mail.

“And remember, be sure to make TWO copies of your grading sheets before filling them out. James! Is James here?!?” James was, in fact, sitting opposite me at the conference table. Earlier we’d been chuckling about the last time we’d seen each other, at a party for a mutual acquaintance at a KTV joint – I had left in a huff after somebody had cut the juice as I was just about to croak out Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. He tentatively raised his hand. “Last semester, James handed in his grades and they were all WRONG! He hadn’t made copies and when he asked for some new sheets, I told him that he couldn’t have any because Teaching Affairs wouldn’t print any more. So, please remember, make TWO copies of your grading sheets before filling them out!” Ms. Yao is the most direct Chinese person I’ve ever met. I find this refreshing. “Is Matthew here?!? Matthew MacDonald?!?” Usually. As I now timidly raised my own hand, I knew that the expression on my face must have looked similar to James’ when he had heard his own name called. “Matthew filled out his grade sheets perfectly. I’ve made a copy and am handing them around for all of you to look at.” For completely different reasons, James and I now feel much the same way. I hear a muttered, half-joking “Teacher’s pet.”

The meeting ended abruptly; whoever had scheduled it to end at 11:30 had forgotten that, on weekends, the school shuttle back to the city leaves at 11:20. Nobody really said anything, it was just as if some sort of disturbance in nature, like the feeling of an oncoming summer rainstorm, made everybody begin to fidget in their seats, then pack their bags, then WHOOSH!!! One of my personal goals since I’ve come to China has been to participate in a fire drill. I’ve realized since my arrival that this is probably never going to happen because, to date, I’ve never seen any fire alarms. This lack of safety precaution may be due to carelessness or cheapness. More likely, however, it is because fire alarms are considered redundant. The Chinese instinct for self-preservation is a powerful one – having a bell ring to tell everybody that it’s time to run for their lives probably just seems silly. The foreign teaching staff is picking up on this nicely.

Note: All names in this essay, except for mine, have been changed.