In my last entry I talked about the inherent conflict of ideals highlighted by two classic works of literature—1984 and Dao De Jing—and what they say about the prospects for the West getting along with China.
I’d like to expand on that a little more by considering the two classic texts of Chinese strategy and diplomacy—The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Sun Tzi’s Art of War, because their depth of creative duplicity makes The Prince read like How to Win Friends & Influence People.
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms is a long and rambling epic, but at its heart is the story of two generals, Liu Bei and his nemesis Cao Cao, in a quest for supremacy in the twilight of a dynasty. Liu Bei supposedly represents virtue and humility while Cao Cao represents opportunism and ambition. Liu Bei is forced into a leadership position to defend his emperor, and when his emperor dies his followers plead with him to resurrect a new empire. And, although Liu Bei at first refuses, circumstances and the determination of his followers force him to put on the crown.
Cao Cao also took up the sword to defend his emperor, but once opportunity presented itself he immediately began plotting to take the throne. There’s no difference in action between Liu Bei and Cao Cao (they’re both ambitious schemers who manipulate and deceive their followers), but it’s Liu Bei’s hypocrisy and duplicity that make him the hero. In Orwellian terms, Liu Bei has perfected doublethink.
Here is Orwell’s description of doublethink:
'Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows in which direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of doublethink he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt...To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies—all this is indispensably necessary.'
Now read some of Sun Tzi’s strategies:
'Secret machinations are better concealed in the open than in the dark, and extreme public exposure often contains extreme secrecy.'
'You conceal your hostility by assuming outward friendliness. You ingratiate yourself with enemies, inducing them to trust you. When you have their confidence, you can move against them in secret.'
'Inflict minor or non-fatal injury on oneself to gain the enemy’s trust. This is a technique particularly for undercover agents: you make yourself look like a victim of your own people in order to win the sympathy and confidence of enemies.'
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms is a description of doublethink in practice, and Sun Tzi’s Art of War is an instruction manual on how to implement doublethink. (There really are too many Liu Beis scattered throughout Chinese history, the most famous being of course Mao Zedong.)
Compare these foundational texts of the Chinese empire with that of the Roman empire, Virgil’s Aeneid. The Trojan Aeneas has two main qualities: he’s pious and honest. Many Chinese would find him an idiot, and even Virgil depicts him as lacking any agency or ideas of his own. He’s neither a thinker nor a debater, and he comes truly alive and displays his personality only on the battlefield where by leading his Trojans to vanquish the Latin tribes arrayed against him he sows the seeds of the Roman empire.
And Americans admire above all else George Washington, a simple honest warrior who fathered a country and who in return asked for nothing more than to retire to his Virginia farm. Both Aeneas and George Washington would be horrified by the Art of War, and many Chinese would likely find both these men simple-minded and naïve. But the two are the heroes of history’s two greatest empires, and that’s no accident. A nation that worships Aeneas or Washington also typically worships hard work and honesty, duty and honor. And a nation that worships Sun Tzi and Mao Zedong also in many cases worships dishonesty and duplicity, deception and scheming:
China is full of practitioners of doublethink, and Orwell warned us that the ultimate consequence of doublethink is a people incapable of progress, a culture trapped in an inward-looking game of deception and duplicity. Thus, China’s long history is not its most blessed strength but strongest curse.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Language, Culture and War (Diplomat)
George Orwell’s 1984 is the classic Western description of totalitarianism, while Laozi’s Dao De Jing (The Book of the Way and Virtue) is a foundational text of Chinese culture and thought. 1984 was published in 1949, and the Dao De Jing appeared over two millennia earlier.
Orwell never concerned himself with China; he had written 1984 in response to fascist and communist totalitarianism, a decidedly 20th century phenomenon. So what if I were to say that 1984 and the Dao De Jing are an intellectual debate between Orwell and Laozi? And what if I were to also say that George Orwell’s dystopia was in fact Laozi’s utopia? A look at the two texts says a great deal about why China and the West may be destined to disagree—or worse.
The similarities between the two classics are striking. Orwell’s masterpiece describes an England under the Ingsoc (English socialism) system, which is held together by Newspeak, doublethink, and the slogan ‘War is Peace/Freedom is Slavery/Ignorance is Strength.’ All three have equivalences in the Dao De Jing, but are rendered more poetic, subtle, and acceptable: Laozi was Big Brother’s propagandist.
In his essay ‘Politics and the English Language,’ Orwell described how vital language was to vibrancy of thought, and in 1984 he continues the theme to its logical extreme: without language there could be no thought. Thus, Newspeak:
‘Don’t you see the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thought crime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it.’
Newspeak aims to destroy and negate language, to strip away the nuances and subtleties, beauty and elegance of a language. It becomes only functional and thus a strait-jacket: the person must do—he can neither question nor doubt nor change because there aren’t words for such dissent.
Although the Dao De Jing never discusses language specifically, its attitude towards language, like Big Brother’s, is one of suspicion and hostility.
Big Brother and Laozi share a fundamental logic, worldview, and attitude: proscribe language, destroy thought, and negate the self. Big Brother understands that doublethink actually means no-think, for if everything is a contradiction, there’s no point in believing in anything. The Dao De Jing is nothing but doublethink, full of flux, instability, and contradictions in its praise of flux, instability, and contradictions:
As soon as everyone in the world knows that the beautiful are beautiful,
There is already ugliness.
As soon as everyone knows the able,
There is ineptness.
In 1984, Winston Smith cries for truth and freedom by insisting on the rationality, stability, and determinacy of things. But both Big Brother and Laozi would laugh at and pity Smith’s stubbornness. In the climax to 1984, Smith is captured by Big Brother’s spymaster O’Brien, who enlightens the delusional and misguided Smith through the ‘purifying’ technique of torture. O’Brien wants Smith to negate his memories and thus negate all who is—once Smith’s sense of self is vanquished he will submit automatically to the ‘truth’:
‘Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston…When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth, is truth.’
If you were to substitute Winston Smith with Orwell, O’Brien with Laozi, and the Party with Laozi’s The Way, this passage would clearly express the ideological divide between Orwell and Laozi—and between West and East.
Of course, Laozi is far more subtle and poetic than O’Brien, but he celebrates ignorance, passiveness, humility, and subservience, and in one passage he even mirrors the syntax and logic of the slogan ‘War is Peace/Freedom is Slavery/Ignorance is Strength’:
Credible words are not eloquent;
Eloquent words are not credible.
The wise are not erudite;
The erudite are not wise.
The adept are not all-around;
The all-around are not adept. (Chapter 81)
How ironic is it that in trying to describe the most intolerable unforgiving hell, Orwell has re-written the Dao De Jing for a Western audience? The sort of philosophy that repels a Western writer is in fact too often the culture of China.
So why should China and the West get along? It’s not just that their value systems, as underscored in these two classics, are different—they’re fundamentally at war with each other.
Orwell never concerned himself with China; he had written 1984 in response to fascist and communist totalitarianism, a decidedly 20th century phenomenon. So what if I were to say that 1984 and the Dao De Jing are an intellectual debate between Orwell and Laozi? And what if I were to also say that George Orwell’s dystopia was in fact Laozi’s utopia? A look at the two texts says a great deal about why China and the West may be destined to disagree—or worse.
The similarities between the two classics are striking. Orwell’s masterpiece describes an England under the Ingsoc (English socialism) system, which is held together by Newspeak, doublethink, and the slogan ‘War is Peace/Freedom is Slavery/Ignorance is Strength.’ All three have equivalences in the Dao De Jing, but are rendered more poetic, subtle, and acceptable: Laozi was Big Brother’s propagandist.
In his essay ‘Politics and the English Language,’ Orwell described how vital language was to vibrancy of thought, and in 1984 he continues the theme to its logical extreme: without language there could be no thought. Thus, Newspeak:
‘Don’t you see the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thought crime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it.’
Newspeak aims to destroy and negate language, to strip away the nuances and subtleties, beauty and elegance of a language. It becomes only functional and thus a strait-jacket: the person must do—he can neither question nor doubt nor change because there aren’t words for such dissent.
Although the Dao De Jing never discusses language specifically, its attitude towards language, like Big Brother’s, is one of suspicion and hostility.
Big Brother and Laozi share a fundamental logic, worldview, and attitude: proscribe language, destroy thought, and negate the self. Big Brother understands that doublethink actually means no-think, for if everything is a contradiction, there’s no point in believing in anything. The Dao De Jing is nothing but doublethink, full of flux, instability, and contradictions in its praise of flux, instability, and contradictions:
As soon as everyone in the world knows that the beautiful are beautiful,
There is already ugliness.
As soon as everyone knows the able,
There is ineptness.
In 1984, Winston Smith cries for truth and freedom by insisting on the rationality, stability, and determinacy of things. But both Big Brother and Laozi would laugh at and pity Smith’s stubbornness. In the climax to 1984, Smith is captured by Big Brother’s spymaster O’Brien, who enlightens the delusional and misguided Smith through the ‘purifying’ technique of torture. O’Brien wants Smith to negate his memories and thus negate all who is—once Smith’s sense of self is vanquished he will submit automatically to the ‘truth’:
‘Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston…When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth, is truth.’
If you were to substitute Winston Smith with Orwell, O’Brien with Laozi, and the Party with Laozi’s The Way, this passage would clearly express the ideological divide between Orwell and Laozi—and between West and East.
Of course, Laozi is far more subtle and poetic than O’Brien, but he celebrates ignorance, passiveness, humility, and subservience, and in one passage he even mirrors the syntax and logic of the slogan ‘War is Peace/Freedom is Slavery/Ignorance is Strength’:
Credible words are not eloquent;
Eloquent words are not credible.
The wise are not erudite;
The erudite are not wise.
The adept are not all-around;
The all-around are not adept. (Chapter 81)
How ironic is it that in trying to describe the most intolerable unforgiving hell, Orwell has re-written the Dao De Jing for a Western audience? The sort of philosophy that repels a Western writer is in fact too often the culture of China.
So why should China and the West get along? It’s not just that their value systems, as underscored in these two classics, are different—they’re fundamentally at war with each other.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Cultural Clash (Diplomat)
Last week, the New York Times ran a piece on Zhai Tiantian, a disgruntled Chinese graduate student turned martyr after the Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, New Jersey, had him arrested for threatening to burn down the school.
The news has been badly reported and hotlydiscussed in China for the past six weeks. Zhai seems a typical product of China’s education system, whose broken English, Chinese reasoning, and lack of social grace have mired him in personal and professional squabbles since arriving in the United States in 2003. He’s argued with his advisor, and in a TV interview accused his school of being racist. The New York police had also arrested him for harassing a woman, which prompted the Stevens Institute of Technology to suspend him.
Zhai’s appeals were in vain, and when he threatened the school the police came to arrest him, and he now faces deportation. Zhai’s fate hinges on how an American court of law interprets his words ‘I’m going to burn that building down.’ Zhai’s US advocates insist that he was speaking metaphorically, and the Chinese people are baffled by how a nation which protects freedom of speech could take such words so seriously.
Why did Zhai utter those words, regardless of what they meant? Because such behavior is too often considered normal in China. Zhai represents a new type of Chinese that most Americans have yet to encounter. Americans are familiar with the Asian stereotype of either shy and studious or psychologically unbalanced. But Zhai is a normal Chinese who’s grown up in a country where too many people get ahead in life by bullying and by cheating.
All this reminds me of the Coen brothers’ movie ‘A Serious Man,’ about an unlucky physics college professor, Larry Gopnik. He happens to have a Korean student who is bad at maths. Clyde, the Korean student, fails a physics mid-term, and asks Gopnik to give him a passing grade because the test was unfair—no one told him mathematics was part of physics.
The argument goes nowhere, and the Korean student surreptitiously leaves an envelope with hundred dollar bills inside. Gopnik discovers the envelope, and calls Clyde back into his office, and Clyde refuses to admit he had left the envelope. After this encounter, Clyde’s father Mr. Park, visits Gopnik at home, and threatens to sue him if he doesn’t pass Clyde:
Mr. Park: [The problem is a] culture clash.
Gopnik: With all due respect, I don’t think it’s that. It would be a culture clash if it were the custom in your land to bribe people for grades.
Mr. Park: Yes
Gopnik: So you’re saying it is the custom?
Mr. Park: No, it’s defamation—ground for lawsuit.
Gopnik: Let me get this straight. You’re threatening to sue me for defaming your son?
Mr. Park:Yes.
Gopnik: If it were defamation there would have to be someone I was defaming him to, or I….All right, let’s keep it simple. I could pretend the money never appeared. That’s not defaming anyone.
Mr. Park:Yes. And passing grade.
Gopnik: Passing grade?
Mr. Park:Yes.
Gopnik: Or you’ll sue me?
Mr. Park: For taking money.
Gopnik: So he did leave the money?
Mr. Park: This is defamation!
Gopnik: It doesn’t make sense. Either he left the money or he didn’t.
Mr. Park: Please. Accept the mystery.
I remember when I first arrived at Shenzhen Middle School in the autumn of 2008, and Principal Wang Zheng called me into his office. For the past four hours, he had been arguing with a father whose son was applying to US universities. The father had paid a magazine to publish his son’s economics paper, and his son had written to American universities about this ‘achievement’.
But in the school report to US universities, our counsellor had written that the student had ‘co-wrote’ the economics paper. Another student had opened this confidential school report, and told the student. When the student failed to get into an American university, the father decided that the school must be at fault. I quizzed the student, and discovered that his test scores were low, his spoken English was terrible, and that he didn’t participate in any extra-curricular activities. But his father was absolutely convinced that the two letters ‘co’ had sunk his son’s future, and demanded we write to the universities to admit our mistake.
So, the father had bribed a magazine to publish his son’s article, his son’s friend had opened a confidential letter and leaked the contents, and his son’s English was mediocre—and somehow Shenzhen Middle School and the prefix ‘co’ were to be blamed for his son not getting accepted?
Ultimately, with the real threat of a disgruntled and powerful father coming to the school every day to badger Principal Wang, we relented and wrote the letter—and the student did end up getting into an American university. US universities will be dealing with a lot more students like Zhai, even if they deport this one.
The news has been badly reported and hotlydiscussed in China for the past six weeks. Zhai seems a typical product of China’s education system, whose broken English, Chinese reasoning, and lack of social grace have mired him in personal and professional squabbles since arriving in the United States in 2003. He’s argued with his advisor, and in a TV interview accused his school of being racist. The New York police had also arrested him for harassing a woman, which prompted the Stevens Institute of Technology to suspend him.
Zhai’s appeals were in vain, and when he threatened the school the police came to arrest him, and he now faces deportation. Zhai’s fate hinges on how an American court of law interprets his words ‘I’m going to burn that building down.’ Zhai’s US advocates insist that he was speaking metaphorically, and the Chinese people are baffled by how a nation which protects freedom of speech could take such words so seriously.
Why did Zhai utter those words, regardless of what they meant? Because such behavior is too often considered normal in China. Zhai represents a new type of Chinese that most Americans have yet to encounter. Americans are familiar with the Asian stereotype of either shy and studious or psychologically unbalanced. But Zhai is a normal Chinese who’s grown up in a country where too many people get ahead in life by bullying and by cheating.
All this reminds me of the Coen brothers’ movie ‘A Serious Man,’ about an unlucky physics college professor, Larry Gopnik. He happens to have a Korean student who is bad at maths. Clyde, the Korean student, fails a physics mid-term, and asks Gopnik to give him a passing grade because the test was unfair—no one told him mathematics was part of physics.
The argument goes nowhere, and the Korean student surreptitiously leaves an envelope with hundred dollar bills inside. Gopnik discovers the envelope, and calls Clyde back into his office, and Clyde refuses to admit he had left the envelope. After this encounter, Clyde’s father Mr. Park, visits Gopnik at home, and threatens to sue him if he doesn’t pass Clyde:
Mr. Park: [The problem is a] culture clash.
Gopnik: With all due respect, I don’t think it’s that. It would be a culture clash if it were the custom in your land to bribe people for grades.
Mr. Park: Yes
Gopnik: So you’re saying it is the custom?
Mr. Park: No, it’s defamation—ground for lawsuit.
Gopnik: Let me get this straight. You’re threatening to sue me for defaming your son?
Mr. Park:Yes.
Gopnik: If it were defamation there would have to be someone I was defaming him to, or I….All right, let’s keep it simple. I could pretend the money never appeared. That’s not defaming anyone.
Mr. Park:Yes. And passing grade.
Gopnik: Passing grade?
Mr. Park:Yes.
Gopnik: Or you’ll sue me?
Mr. Park: For taking money.
Gopnik: So he did leave the money?
Mr. Park: This is defamation!
Gopnik: It doesn’t make sense. Either he left the money or he didn’t.
Mr. Park: Please. Accept the mystery.
I remember when I first arrived at Shenzhen Middle School in the autumn of 2008, and Principal Wang Zheng called me into his office. For the past four hours, he had been arguing with a father whose son was applying to US universities. The father had paid a magazine to publish his son’s economics paper, and his son had written to American universities about this ‘achievement’.
But in the school report to US universities, our counsellor had written that the student had ‘co-wrote’ the economics paper. Another student had opened this confidential school report, and told the student. When the student failed to get into an American university, the father decided that the school must be at fault. I quizzed the student, and discovered that his test scores were low, his spoken English was terrible, and that he didn’t participate in any extra-curricular activities. But his father was absolutely convinced that the two letters ‘co’ had sunk his son’s future, and demanded we write to the universities to admit our mistake.
So, the father had bribed a magazine to publish his son’s article, his son’s friend had opened a confidential letter and leaked the contents, and his son’s English was mediocre—and somehow Shenzhen Middle School and the prefix ‘co’ were to be blamed for his son not getting accepted?
Ultimately, with the real threat of a disgruntled and powerful father coming to the school every day to badger Principal Wang, we relented and wrote the letter—and the student did end up getting into an American university. US universities will be dealing with a lot more students like Zhai, even if they deport this one.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Head -- Meet Brick Wall (Diplomat)
So, what was the fate of the Special Curriculum I’ve talked so much about this past month?
By February this year, it was considered a success. All the drama and the instability of the first semester had finally gone, and teachers could focus on teaching, and students on learning. Students, parents, and teachers said they were all happy with the direction of the programme, which now had three components—oral and reading English classes, a fitness programme, and activities. I felt that overall these were making the students open and curious, healthy and confident.
Local media reported on us, and students tried to transfer into the programme. This success also put pressure on other elite public high schools to start study abroad programmes, and two actually did. All Shenzhen students interested in studying abroad had now heard of the Special Curriculum.
My patron, Principal Wang Zheng, may have been unceremoniously replaced in February, but I was still confident that the new principal would support the Special Curriculum and that I could continue to manage and direct the programme.
But my Chinese staff members were not as optimistic as I was. They told me that leaders here were more interested in maintaining and asserting their power than in building something good and lasting. This new principal would have made inquiries about me, and although I’d created the Special Curriculum, I’d also brought all sorts of political strife to the school. Principal Wang Zheng tolerated me because we both shared a passion for education reform. But this new administrator would, I was told, likely make sure to get rid of me.
I was sure that my Chinese staff members were wrong until the new principal sent out a memorandum announcing the formulation of a new department at the school called ‘The Office for International Curriculum.’ The office would be responsible for the hiring and training of international teachers, the planning and development of international curriculum, advising students on how to apply to American universities, and handling all international contacts. The school had created a new department to subsume all my responsibilities: The Special Curriculum was now dead.
Literary critics have long debated the meaning of The Castle, and now I have the answer: In telling the tale of a land surveyor who tried without success to contact the castle, Kafka was describing working in a Chinese bureaucracy. Like the protagonist K., I’d been isolated and abandoned in bureaucratic purgatory. But unlike K., I neither asked questions nor fought to know the truth nor sought to confirm my existence. Certain that the school was just waiting for my contract to expire in mid-July, I went to the gym every day and decided to read the Western canon (I’m now on The Fall and Decline of the Roman Empire!)
As I write this, the programme we all worked on is being torn apart. The new programme will eliminate the small class format, saying it’s a waste of resources, and eliminate the fitness programme, saying it’s pointless. Next semester, the oral and reading English classes will be replaced with Advanced Placement classes (the students’ English has really improved because of the current curriculum, but I suppose that AP classes would look better on the students’ application to US universities).
Both the school and I believe in inculcating self-control and discipline in the students, but we disagree over approach. The school believes a head teacher by controlling and commanding students will prevent them from making mistakes and disobeying rules. I believe in students making mistakes and learning from these mistakes. Above all, I believe in choice and responsibility; last semester, students didn’t take fitness class seriously, and when they got a C in that class on their report card they came to the office to complain. I held firm, and this semester they’re on time and constantly sweating in fitness class. A school should place boundaries, not put a leash on students.
I was angry and sad to see all these changes, but I kept calm and silent. I honestly don’t have any hard feelings against the new principal: he’s just doing what he thinks is best for the school.
These last two years at Shenzhen Middle School have made me a better person in so many ways, and I’ll be devastated if I leave the school once and for all. I’ve been happy, sad, arrogant, pitiful, exhilarant, depressed—and above all felt alive.
The Special Curriculum was a radical experiment, and I used it as a laboratory to experiment radically. Looking back I now see it was unethical to experiment in a public high school, but I also learned a great deal about how to make the classroom a better learning environment for students.
Later this month I’d like to discuss the particular difficulties of teaching English (and just language in general) to Chinese students. These entries will—like my time at this school—probably provoke and disturb, annoy and anger. That’s my hope, at least.
By February this year, it was considered a success. All the drama and the instability of the first semester had finally gone, and teachers could focus on teaching, and students on learning. Students, parents, and teachers said they were all happy with the direction of the programme, which now had three components—oral and reading English classes, a fitness programme, and activities. I felt that overall these were making the students open and curious, healthy and confident.
Local media reported on us, and students tried to transfer into the programme. This success also put pressure on other elite public high schools to start study abroad programmes, and two actually did. All Shenzhen students interested in studying abroad had now heard of the Special Curriculum.
My patron, Principal Wang Zheng, may have been unceremoniously replaced in February, but I was still confident that the new principal would support the Special Curriculum and that I could continue to manage and direct the programme.
But my Chinese staff members were not as optimistic as I was. They told me that leaders here were more interested in maintaining and asserting their power than in building something good and lasting. This new principal would have made inquiries about me, and although I’d created the Special Curriculum, I’d also brought all sorts of political strife to the school. Principal Wang Zheng tolerated me because we both shared a passion for education reform. But this new administrator would, I was told, likely make sure to get rid of me.
I was sure that my Chinese staff members were wrong until the new principal sent out a memorandum announcing the formulation of a new department at the school called ‘The Office for International Curriculum.’ The office would be responsible for the hiring and training of international teachers, the planning and development of international curriculum, advising students on how to apply to American universities, and handling all international contacts. The school had created a new department to subsume all my responsibilities: The Special Curriculum was now dead.
Literary critics have long debated the meaning of The Castle, and now I have the answer: In telling the tale of a land surveyor who tried without success to contact the castle, Kafka was describing working in a Chinese bureaucracy. Like the protagonist K., I’d been isolated and abandoned in bureaucratic purgatory. But unlike K., I neither asked questions nor fought to know the truth nor sought to confirm my existence. Certain that the school was just waiting for my contract to expire in mid-July, I went to the gym every day and decided to read the Western canon (I’m now on The Fall and Decline of the Roman Empire!)
As I write this, the programme we all worked on is being torn apart. The new programme will eliminate the small class format, saying it’s a waste of resources, and eliminate the fitness programme, saying it’s pointless. Next semester, the oral and reading English classes will be replaced with Advanced Placement classes (the students’ English has really improved because of the current curriculum, but I suppose that AP classes would look better on the students’ application to US universities).
Both the school and I believe in inculcating self-control and discipline in the students, but we disagree over approach. The school believes a head teacher by controlling and commanding students will prevent them from making mistakes and disobeying rules. I believe in students making mistakes and learning from these mistakes. Above all, I believe in choice and responsibility; last semester, students didn’t take fitness class seriously, and when they got a C in that class on their report card they came to the office to complain. I held firm, and this semester they’re on time and constantly sweating in fitness class. A school should place boundaries, not put a leash on students.
I was angry and sad to see all these changes, but I kept calm and silent. I honestly don’t have any hard feelings against the new principal: he’s just doing what he thinks is best for the school.
These last two years at Shenzhen Middle School have made me a better person in so many ways, and I’ll be devastated if I leave the school once and for all. I’ve been happy, sad, arrogant, pitiful, exhilarant, depressed—and above all felt alive.
The Special Curriculum was a radical experiment, and I used it as a laboratory to experiment radically. Looking back I now see it was unethical to experiment in a public high school, but I also learned a great deal about how to make the classroom a better learning environment for students.
Later this month I’d like to discuss the particular difficulties of teaching English (and just language in general) to Chinese students. These entries will—like my time at this school—probably provoke and disturb, annoy and anger. That’s my hope, at least.
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