Fuddland

One of my more enjoyable teaching duties is the weekly “English Corner”: a two-hour session open to the public, in which anyone wishing to practise speaking English can come along and talk with other like-minded people and three or four native English speakers. It’s my duty to select the general topic of conversation each week, which we are supposed to discuss in small groups whilst supping tea, but in practice the topic gets forgotten about in the first few minutes and most of the evening’s conversations begin with, “So, in your country…?” I like chatting with the regulars, finding out as much about Chinese life as they do about my culture.

The people who come along are all very nice; some are a little too keen to talk and don’t give others a chance to speak, and some just want to listen until they feel confident enough to contribute. But recently I’ve been suffering a certain level of chagrin due to having developed a few “fans” amongst the attendees, who go out of their way to sit as close to me as possible and direct all their comments at me, instead of talking with the rest of the group. There are a few women who delight in telling me several times a week what a handsome man I am. [My outward, bashful, modest acceptance of their compliment disguises my internal monologue, which is along the lines of, “Run away! Run away! They want a husband!”] And anytime I say something vaguely intelligent — or whenever I demonstrate that I know a little Mandarin — there’s a general buzz of, “So smart, so smart. Doctor is doctor.” This latter statement is a literal translation of a Chinese saying whose meaning seems to be, “People with PhDs are clever.” Profound.

One chap in particular makes me incredibly self-conscious, not only because he’s verges on the sycophantic with his praises of my intellect, teaching ability and general outlook on life, but also because, whenever we’re speaking, not only does he have a habit of repeating the last few words of my sentences — this is fair enough, helping him improve his English — but he also mimics whatever hand gestures I’m using at the time, gesture-for-gesture. I’ve never been so aware of how often I use my hands when making a point or explaining something, and I’m torn between sitting on my hands, and making outrageously flamboyant gestures just to see if he adopts them.

#1

Kav | 2007 / 04 / 30 – 22:56

oooh, go flamboyant, it’s more fun. You’ll know that its time to bail from the sociopaths-in-potentia when that guy grows his hair curly and floppy…

#2

Em | 2007 / 05 / 02 – 19:25

Oh, go on, go all Julian Clary on him! :-)

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