Chinese Lessons

On September 1st Zoe starts xiao ban. Since this is the equivalent of the first day of kindergarten, there are orientation days this weekend and next so the kids can get used to the school. Today’s activity  consisted of each student standing with the teacher saying their name and singing a song.They then had a pee, drank some water and we left.

The good news is that Zoe has made ballet class — which is actually pretty competitive (I was warned last year that she might not make it). Auditions (who knows what they consisted of) were held last spring and today I was told that out of 5 xiao ban classes Zoe’s is the only one that focuses on ballet rather than chess. I eagerly await the first performance.

more pics here

the difficulty of reform

Shanghaiist translates the essay question. I have no idea how one is meant to answer these or what the grader is looking for.

Update: An explanation of sorts

In honor of the upcoming gaokao a link to China Power – where Shenzhen teacher Jiang Xueqin blogs on education reform. His posts  – well worth reading – are found here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here.

To wet your appetite here’s a quote on ‘a day in the life’ of a Chinese high school student:

So consider a typical day in the life of a Chinese high school student. He is locked in a sterile white room, being lectured to from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, when he is expected to do homework and memorize textbooks. He’ll usually go to bed around eleven, but if he’s ‘smart and hardworking’ enough to test into one of China’s elite high schools his ‘dedicated and responsible’ teachers will give him so much homework that he will collapse out of exhaustion at three in the morning. On weekends he’ll lock himself in his room and play ‘Counterstrike,’ but if his parents are ‘loving and enlightened’ then he’ll go to weekend mathematics and English classes to get that one or two percentage edge over his classmates. He has neither an appetite nor interest outside class; in class he doesn’t ask questions or stare outside the window (although he may be asleep), so focused and committed is he on making his parents, his teachers, and his country proud. After three years of this exacting regime his body will be frail and weak, and his mind will be exhausted and stunted. After he passes the national examination he’ll quickly forget everything he’s memorized, and he’ll spend his university days improving his ‘Counterstrike’ skills, which is his one and only passion.

He won’t know how to question and to think. He won’t know how to sustain an intelligent conversation or seek self-improvement. His head will be stuffed with trivial knowledge, and he won’t know how to send a polite and effective e-mail. He’ll be socially awkward, and have the maturity of a 12-year-old. But he’ll have passed the national examination and will have hopefully mastered ‘Counterstrike’ —and so when looking for work he’ll expect a lot of responsibility and a big pay cheque.

Yesterday, just as we were about to leave the house, Max got into a sudden panic about not having his shoupa. “Do you really still need that” I asked. He hasn’t actually used one for ages (having sort of outgrown the snotty kid phase). Turns out it was fear not necessity that brought on the panic. If I don’t bring one, he explained, Ill get a blue ticket rather than a red one at morning inspection and if that happens the whole class will lose its sticker today.

I can tell from the snippets I hear about  Max’s day that this kind of group discipline is a common method in Chinese education. Classes are treated as units and are rewarded and punished as one. Though this is clearly highly effective I am extremely skeptical – and even a bit hostile – to this type of shame-based enforced collectivity (which seems to me at the root of many of China’s problems).

more pics from wonderful, spectacular Yangshuo here

From observation day at school:

The last day of school before break the school hosted a charity for children who suffered from the recent earthquake in Qinghai. Kids were supposed to bring some toys to school which I presumed were going to be sent to the earthquake region. I dutifully packed up two puzzles and told Max that we were giving them to kids who weren’t as fortunate as us.

When I got home, however, Max excitedly showed me the new Ultraman he had bought at the toy sale. There was also 5 RMB laying on the table.  I quizzed Max who told me that his teacher had bought the puzzles and that he was able to buy the Ultraman with the money. All the kids in the earthquake were already dead, he insisted, which is why the puzzles didn’t go to them.

Bemused  I tried to ask my ayi  what had happened (she did pick up that day) but still do not really understand. She told me that the puzzles were expensive, which explained the toy and change, and insisted that something did in fact go to charity – but I’m still not really sure what.

At least next time there is a charity Max will be happy to give again.

I learnt about this school through Stepping Stones an organization that coordinates volunteers to teach English to migrant kids around Shanghai. The school is located in the old area of Donjiadu. This is one of the oldest and poorest areas in the urban core. Though in blocks nearby a large community still remains (for now) much of Dongjiadu is under development and the school is one of the only buildings still standing amidst a massive site of demolition. This is the immediate view:

The only other building that remains is a nail house (the term used here for people who refuse to budge for the bulldozers) that is located right next door.

Migrant schools are all in a state of flux right now. Policy change has meant that informal (or grassroot) schools have been  closed as the government tries to formalize the education for migrant kids in the cities. I’m not sure what is going to happen to this school or the kids that it teaches. For more pics of the demolition at Dongjiadu click here.