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I had lived in Beijing for a year and a half at the age of four, and had attended Chinese nursery school. I had also grown up speaking Mandarin at home. However, I was not at all prepared for what met me the year we spent in Beijing when my father headed an international program for a small group of American students.

At the time, though I spoke Mandarin without a foreign accent, my vocabulary did not extend far beyond a grade-school level, and I was next to illiterate. Well aware of that, my parents, fond followers of the "sink or swim" theory, dropped me off at the local Chinese school the first day of classes and promptly disappeared.

In thinking back, I can honestly say that during the first few months I was completely in the dark both socially and academically. There were so many intricacies of the classroom that no one had prepared me for. I was shocked by the power that the Chinese teacher held over the students: the volume with which she scolded them even after they had been reduced to muted sobbing and her unceasing rhetoric about their duties to the ancestral land. I was shocked at the same time, however, by her extreme involvement in and dedication to the lives of the students. The relationships shared among the students were foreign to me as well: I had to get used to girls holding hands with girls and boys likewise with boys. Arguments were settled in the open, often with loud screaming and eventually crying. Nothing was suppressed.

I made all sorts of blunders, such as wearing my hair down, crossing my legs when speaking to the principal, or forgetting to stand when answering a question in class. Actually, the students greeted everything I did with laughter, giggling, and stolen glances in my direction. It took me so long to understand and accept the nature of that laughter. Gym class (or rather, military marching drills class) provided me with the ultimate chance to be a blundering fool. Though the students assured me that the teacher was speaking Mandarin, I could hear only a garbled shout of "Fragrance," followed by some vowelless consonants, while the others somehow heard "Face right and march." Of course, my being run into was not beneficial to the appearance of the drill. My favorite class, calligraphy, was taught once a week by an ancient man who spoke with an accent more foreign to me than that of the gym teacher. The students were astounded one afternoon at my callous behavior in response to his complimenting of my characters (Guo Lei poked me in the back with her pencil): they did not realize that I had no idea what the dear man was saying. We had math and language class each at least two times a day. In math not only could I not read the problems or understand the spoken terms, my math ability was so far behind that of the Chinese that I did not even know how to begin the problems which they practiced by the tens in one-minute speed drills. I was not used to being the dunce, and many tears were privately shed in our bathroom after school those first few months.

Of course, some of my classmates shed tears publicly. I remember the first time the teacher caught a student cheating on an exam. The student was screamed at until he was reduced to tears, whereupon he proceeded to tattle on numerous other kids. The teacher was pleased and complimented the boy for fulfilling his duty of tattling "for the betterment of those students." I was dumbfounded. Immediately, students began to stand, confess, and tell on others. A few tried to deny it, but they all knew that it was much easier to follow the "confess and tattle" routine. Within 15 minutes, nearly the entire class was standing before the teacher in tears.

I do not know how I came not only to function in, but to enjoy going to that classroom and spending time with the other kids, so much so that I did not want to return to American school. I guess it started with the teacher assigning me during the first months to blindly copy hundreds, thousands of characters to train my hand. Also, every night my mother translated my math problems to me and helped me to reach their level of math. Gradually, I began to fit in. I learned, after the second class, to put everything away and perform facial massage exercises when the theme of Love Story was blasted over the loudspeaker. I began to keep a weekly journal like the other kids, and to do the same homework they did. I learned to laugh with them at the funny occurrences in class, whether or not they involved me. In particular I remember a day in Communist Virtue class, when the teacher read the class their duties to their nation: "We must be loyal to our nation and try to associate as little as possible with foreigners. Of course, we must be gracious and polite, helping them when necessary, but beyond that, we ought to distance ourselves from them and help our own fellow comrades and" There was an embarrassed silence before she lowered her book below her eyes to hurriedly state before continuing, "Of course, we know that our classmate Pu Lan is exempt from this..." Several students turned their heads toward me and grinned. (My brother, in a similar class, had been asked to pass out little booklets entitled American Imperialism in China, although his teacher never mentioned them again.) I recognized from my own experience and from those of other foreigners that the propaganda and rhetoric of a government cannot be assumed to represent the common people.

By the middle of the second semester, I was completely integrated into the class. The length of the school day and the incredible work load became completely normal. I got As on the math tests, and wrote long essays with the others. I memorized the texts at the same rate and recited them in the same unnatural, passionate voice. The tone of my essays even matched that of the other students: a molded tone of awe at the beauty and bounty of China (and, of course, its Communist virtue). I had made numerous friends, three in particular who came to our dorm every day before our lunch break was over to talk and play card games. I participated in all of the class activities. I even understood the gym teacher. I had become as much at home as I had been in America. It hurt to leave.

Though we left China several years ago, my China experiences have never left me. Back in an American school again, I had to adjust to a "foreign" culture. Again, I had to deal with my reactions toward the mentalities and behavior of the students around me. Again, I was often shocked and frustrated. But I am glad I have two cultures.

~ Jennifer Pusey

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