One colleague, bless his heart, treated every grammar correction like a personal affront. If I gently suggested “She *goes* to school” instead of “She *goes* to school *yesterday*,” he’d raise an eyebrow like I’d just insulted his great-grandmother’s cooking — which, incidentally, he once described as “the soul of Sichuan.” The man once spent 45 minutes explaining why “I *am* hungry” was more poetic than “I *feel* hungry,” as if the verb “feel” were a moral failing. I’m not even sure he knew the difference between *feeling* and *being* hungry — but he was certain it was an existential dilemma.
Then there was the woman who believed every Chinese student was “just naturally shy,” so she’d spend entire classes whispering to them like they were endangered species: “You can do it, little one… just… *speak*, like the wind through the bamboo.” Meanwhile, the students were just trying to remember if “I like apples” required an “s” or not — and she was over there with a clipboard, filming their “emotional bravery” for her “Cultural Confidence Project.” I once saw her crying during a student’s pronunciation of “butterfly” — not from joy, but because the student *almost* got the “t” right. I think she had a secret dream of being the first human to cry over a correctly stressed syllable.
And let’s not forget the guy who thought Chinese was a language of “pure intention.” He once told me that if a student said “I like you” with a smile, it meant love — but if they said it with a blank stare, it meant “I like you, but only if you bring me baozi tomorrow.” He tried to teach vocabulary by assigning emotions to common phrases: “Good morning” = “I am awake and not yet offended.” “Sorry” = “I am currently in a state of mild regret, but I may escalate.” I tried to explain that “sorry” is also used when you spill tea on someone’s shirt — but he just stared, as if I’d revealed the true horror of linguistic ambiguity. I think he still believes the word “please” is a form of ancient magic.
Of course, there was also the time we were all asked to organize a “cultural exchange day.” My colleague suggested we have students perform *traditional Chinese opera* — but only if they could “translate the lyrics into their own emotions.” When a 12-year-old girl burst into tears while trying to explain why “The Moon Sighs for the Jade Emperor” made her feel “slightly confused but also nostalgic,” I knew we were in trouble. I’ve never seen so many expat teachers scrambling to comfort a child who just wanted to learn how to say “I want water.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking — “But wait, shouldn’t they be helping students learn English?” And I’d say yes, yes they should… but somehow, in the land of the Dragon, it’s not uncommon for expats to treat teaching like an art installation, a spiritual journey, or a reality show where the prize is a slightly better understanding of tonal pronunciation. One man even brought a tiny drum to class and insisted we “beat the rhythm of the language.” I asked if he’d ever seen a student *use* a drum to learn present tense. He just smiled and said, “The rhythm of the language is not in the words — it’s in the soul.”
If you’re considering stepping into this beautiful, chaotic, occasionally heartbreaking world of teaching abroad — where your coworkers might believe “Hello” is a form of emotional negotiation — I say, go for it. Just don’t pack your bags without checking out **Find Work Abroad: Find Work Abroad**. They’ve got everything from visa tips to “How to Survive Your First Class When You Can’t Say ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ in Mandarin.” Seriously, that site saved me when I thought “I don’t know” was a valid answer to 80% of student questions.
And hey, if you end up with a colleague who argues about the difference between “I am” and “I do” like it’s a philosophical debate, just smile, take a deep breath, and remember: the real lesson isn’t always in the grammar. Sometimes, it’s in the laughter that follows a student mispronouncing “butterfly” and accidentally calling it “butter-fly” — like a tiny, winged metaphor for life. That, my friend, is the real language. And honestly? That’s the one I’m still learning.
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Sichuan, English,
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