If you're going through hell,

then keep going.

And while you're at it, Carpe Diem.

And sing at the top of your lungs.

Report Cards

I teach English at the local Normal University. The students are very young, between five and nine years old, which is new for me. I have never taught anyone younger than around 14, and the average age of my students when I was in Manchester was probably around mid-forties.

I haven’t enjoyed teaching children as much as I had always thought. With age and language as a barrier, it become infinitely harder to form any kind of personal relationship with them, to care about their lives, their families etc, which was what I loved about this profession. They aren’t yet fuelled with the passionate hormones of adolescence or the weathered wisdom of old age. They’re like half baked people; they have their own personalities and quirks, which are lovely, but there is nothing past that first layer.

This may make me sound cold and heartless, “children bore me”, and I always thought I would be good with kids; but having to be up-beat all the time whilst somehow trying to explain the present continuous to a five-year-old can be immensely exhausting. I miss the banter and the teasing that can happen when teaching older kids or adults. I have a new-found respect for primary school teachers.

At the end of every lesson I have to write a short comment on the students’ performances. It’s not expected to be in too much depth, it usually reads something like;

“Emily continues to have one of the highest reading levels in the class but still needs to look over grammar regularly. Keep up the good work!” – Mr. John

By the way, the students and parents all refer to me as Mr. John. Jazza provokes pronunciation problems in a variety of languages, and insisting on being called Mr. McMillan-Clenaghan would just be cruel to anyone, let alone five-year-old Chinese children. So we settled with Mr. John.

The parents are expected to read this report and take on any advice that I give them. Few of the parents, however, speak very good English. I thus decided to have a little fun with these report cards – shrouding them in metaphor, idioms and various other poetic devices. Yes, yes, maybe this is the cold, heartless Jazza rearing his head again. But, you know what, bugger it and screw your judgement that I am feeling through the computer screen right now.

Here are some of the reports I have sent home:

“Ringo may have entered into the class late but he is already become a dark horse of the competition. If he bears his current course steadily and is able to soar over the various hurdles that the English language throws at him he will most definitely continue to float my boat and ace whatever test I desire to launch in his direction. Keep up the good work!”

“Anna is like a hawk stalking her prey when it comes to her grasp of the passive voice. She has not quite tasted the sweet flesh of this grammatical structure yet, but so long as she keeps her eyes on the goal, not wavering for a second (be sure to practice for at least an hour a day at home) in no time at all she will soar to great heights. She continues to be one of the best students in the class. Keep up the good work!”

“It is as if Emily has the many arms of an octopus when one considers her amazing ability throughout her language learning. Her grammar is flawless, her pronunciation faultless and she is quite simple lovely to boot. I am confident that the fate of Nemo, getting lost, will not befall her and that she will become queen of the great sea that is the English language. Keep up the good work!”

Reading some of these back, I even struggle to remember what the hell I was going on about.

I would like to stress that I only do these elaborate report cards every so often, generally when I have nothing constructive to say apart from, “Keep up the good work!” I am sure that, when I do write like this, I do it in my most illegible teachers’ scrawl.

I am in Nanjing for Christmas, which is going to be a strange but interesting affair. Maybe I will take some pictures. God knows this blog needs some pictures.

blown up in my birthday suite

My Sunday morning started rather peculiarly. I was half way through soaping up in the shower when what appeared to be an air-raid siren sounded, rather loudly, across the city. Needless to say I was a little bit taken aback by this phenomenon, never having been in an air-raid before or, in fact, any other kind of situation that has needed an alarm other than a fire drill. I scanned my brain for some useful information; had anyone at work or Uni told me that there would be a city-wide fire-alarm today? Did someone fail to inform me that Nanjing gets earthquakes? Had someone declared war? Had an atomic bomb dropped? Was I going to be blasted to oblivion in my birthday suite and covered in Head and Shoulders?

In the end none of these happened. In 1937 the Japanese invaded the then capital of the Chinese republic, Nanjing. In the following six weeks a slaughter ensued which some estimate left over 300, 000 people dead, tens of thousands of women raped and a city in ruin. This incident is one of the forgotten war crimes of World War II, in the vast majority of the west at least, and was named the Rape of Nanjing. Those sirens that I heard were the same sirens used to warn the citizens of Nanjing of the coming of Japanese bombers during the weeks and months before they finally entered the walls of the city. The event still has resonance in eastern Asia today, especially concerning relations between Japan, who still refuse to accept full responsibility for what happened, and the Chinese. Anyone who is even vaguely interested in this should read the Iris Chang book, The Rape of Nanking (Nanking being the then Romanised name of the city).

On an ever so slightly lighter note, I have exams this week, which is why this blog, as well as JiC and RWO, have been neglected in the past few weeks. My days have consisted of spending hours in what we call ‘the Korean room’ (due to the fact that Koreans are probably the most studious nationality on the face of the planet) and drinking copious amounts of coffee. I had my first one today; God only knows how it went, it was one of those exams where luck plays an important part. I am planning on pulling something close to an all-nighter tonight, or at least until the unholy hours of the morning. I have pretty much sorted out my grammar for reading tomorrow, but vocabulary seems to never find a cosy little corner of my brain in which to nestle, it keeps getting kicked out my random facts about the Pokémon: Johto television series. Damn my wasted youth!

Less has also been written in this blog because I have started a written diary as well, with pages and ink and stuff. It makes me feel really intellectual and has become a major way for me to vent and talk to myself… as if I needed yet another medium in which to indulge my emo tendencies.

I also failed to mention on anywhere other than Twitter that I went to Hong Kong last week with Johnny and Emma. You can read about bits of it here. I had a lovely time, the break that I needed from the squat toilets, constant spitting and lack of Christmas songs on the main-land. Emma also rarely gets up before midday, so I was able to get at least a bit of revision done for this week.

I will let you know how things go… maybe. I have many videos to shoot and edit when I finish if you care.

I am now off to watch some of the weekend’s X-Factor (Stacey should have won) and then start my revision binge. I bid ye good night.

J

Proficiency Plummeting Profoundly

I just got my computer back and working after literally DAYS without it. It was horrible. I hope you can empathise. This of course now means that my productivity in anything non-computer based, like reading and generally learning stuff, will plummet profoundly.

I was taken to the technology district of Nanjing to go and try and find out what was wrong with the bloody thing by two of my flatmates. They happen to both be gay and make a wonderful couple. This also apparently seemed to give them licence to, pretty much constantly, compliment me and talk about me. I was told I had a great figure, that my skin was so lovely and white, my eyes so wonderfully blue, t’was lovely to receive such praise… but what the hell can you say to that? Fanx lol!

It turns out the fuse in my plug had blown and run out of battery. Therefore, seeing as the retailer I asked had no new plugs of the British disposition, I had to buy a Chinese lead. I groaned at the prospect, expecting the price to be extortionate, it turned out to be 10RMB, the equivalent of £1. I love China!

I am also overly excited about the fact I now have a Chinese plug on the end of my computer. I feel like a local, no longer burdened by the need of chunky adaptors – so liberating!

A part of me is a little annoyed though. I was all set out for a prolonged laptop-fast. I would have been able to read books, study hard for the exams (which are now less than a month away by the way!) and write in my diary (as in a real book, with pages and inks and stuff – not a website), which I have now started updating properly.

But alas! What do I do as soon as I get the VPN on my computer working again? Twitter, YouTube, Facebook; all typed in and loaded in quick succession. When I have a computer with an Internet connection in front of me it’s like dangling heroin in front of a recovering addict.

I am worried a little about how connected I am to the Internet and therefore the rest f the world here. I suppose I would have to be plonked in the middle of the Sahara to get away from it now-a-days, but then there would inevitably be some catacomb with a WiFi terminal.

How much can I really get involved and immersed in China when I have the BBC and Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance but a click away?

In other news I am a little frustrated with my Chinese right now. I have just got back from boxing, something I am so glad I took up. At the end of the session I was sitting there, all topless and sweaty and the like, when this guy with whom I have spared with in the past, Song, came up to start a conversation.

I understood absolutely nothing apart from the fact he was talking about my membership card. I then tried to steer the conversation towards something closer to my level of understanding, asking him how old he was and what job he did. His age I comprehended with ease (he is 26) but all I got from asking his profession was that its second character was “术” (shu)…

I just looked it up on nciku.com and it turns out he works in technology… I have so many questions now! What kind of technology (技术)? Do you work with computers? If I have problems with my computer, could you possibly pop over, figure out that my laptop has run out of battery and then proceed to laugh at me?

As it stands, I had no idea what “术” meant, so the conversation simply petered out into awkward silence. I think he then mumbled something about needing the toilet – I put some clothes on and then left.

It’s so bloody frustrating! I have quite a good reading level in Chinese, along with my writing, and my listening, despite the complication with Song, isn’t horrific. But I just can’t bloody communicate! This is the first time in my language learning history that my speaking has been so bad in comparison with my other disciplines. Oral has always been my forte!

It is I suppose, so much in this country, very humbling.

On the Nation's Dartboard

The British media have been going potty this week about The Sun Newspaper’s personal attack on Prime Minister Gordon Brown.

In short; a woman whose son died in Afghanistan received a hand-written letter from Mr. Brown offering his condolences. She, however, notices that her family name is spelt wrong and that the letter is peppered with mistakes. She decides to take this story to The Sun, who recently decided to withdraw their support of the Labour party, and a week-long offensive on Gordon ensues. The tabloid threw various allegations at him; that he didn’t care about troops and that his letter was an insult, as well as claiming an ‘i’ without a dot in it is an offence to anyone who reads it.

All I can say is that it’s a good job I have never had to write a letter of condolence; I haven’t dotted an ‘i’ since year six!

The Prime Minister then called the woman in question to apologise personally. Apparently, a friend of hers suggested that she recorded the conversation and the whole world got to hear her chat with Gordon. Clearly still stricken with grief she laid into him – it was quite frankly gut-retching to listen to.

She has since accepted Mr. Brown’s apology.

From what I can see from my distant perch in China, this story seems to have back-fired on The Sun. They have certainly come in for a lot of criticism from other media giants and I am personally bloody disgusted with their behaviour. It seems clear to me that the paper has capitalised on a poor woman’s grief for their own political agenda and unfairly attacked a man for sincerely trying to offer his support in a personal, hand-penned letter. Brown himself has deteriorating sight, so it is possible he has not read the woman’s name correctly. Someone probably should have also checked his penmanship before it was sent off, but he decided to sit down and write a letter, not run off another pre-typed one and simply sign the bottom of it.

Okay, The Sun have a go at the PM and Gordon looks a little sad again. But I think this attack has other repercussions.

Since the expenses scandal there has been a massive outcry for a new attitude in politics; for a new outlook, for new blood. What young person is going to even consider going into politics when they see national newspapers beating our leaders to a pulp. Of course our representatives in parliament should be subject to criticism on their policies and to a certain extent their personal lives. But the manner in which The Sun quite frankly bullied Gordon this week is enough to dissuade anyone from a life in the political spotlight.

Politics is something I am interested in, I may even decide to make it a career one day, but this story made me second guess. Haters in YouTube video comments are one thing, they’re a piece of piss to deal with. But in politics all you need is one newspaper to decide to rip you to shreds and no matter how pure your intentions you can have the whole country hating you. I believe Gordon is a genuinely nice guy, who went into politics for the right reasons, but he is the most hated leader in a generation.

Who is going to want to get into this profession and make a difference to the political classes, to deliver the reform that is needed, if they are just going to be reduced to a picture on the nation’s dartboard?

"G" words and "N" Words

Remember in the last post I mentioned the “blacking up” scandal with Vogue? Well I have decided to dust off my notes and talk about it. Premise of the story is quite simply; Dutch model wears black make-up in October’s Vogue Magazine - a lot of people get angry.

A quite similar but at the same time all together different story is that of

the contestants on an Australian TV s

how, Hey Hey It’s Saturday.

Premise being; Jackson 5 tribute act appear on stage with all members apart from Michael Jackson wearing black face makeup and afro wigs – a guest judge (an American) throws a hissy-fit, a lot of people get angry.

I was talking about this with a couple of Australian friends about a week ago. We talked about the fact that there is often a (jovial) stereotype of Australians having a tendency of being a little bit more racist than other nationalities; not in an offensive manner, but similar to the way the British moan about the French.
They mentioned how there just isn’t the same turbulent history in Australia when it comes to race if compared to places like Europe and especially the U.S. They boasted that, with innocent light-heartedness, they could happily bring up someone’s race as a point of humour without anyone being offended. They used words like, “gollywog” as a point of reference.

When I heard gollywog said aloud, I genuinely recoiled back into my chair out of shock. For anyone outside the Commonwealth and is confused as to why this word made me react like this, here is a short explanation courtesy of Wikipedia. Basically, I would never even think out using that word, and would always associate it with the offensive manner with which it was used for such a long time. Thinking about it, I could probably count the number of times I have heard it said aloud on one hand.
The same goes for the “N” word. A word I am apparently so uncomfortable with I can’t bring myself to type it.

All that said, and even considering the strength with which I believe that using terminology like this should be avoided at all costs, part of me greatly envies my Australian friends. Why am I scared of a couple of words? Why can I not just accept difference of race as a fact and be comfortable talking and even making jokes about it? Neither I nor even my parents are directly connected to the history that has tainted those words. The fact I have a problem with them almost seems to insinuate that I myself could still not be over the fact that, yes, some of us are paler than others.
Is Australian society just that much further down the road of recovery than the rest of the word when it comes to getting over that gaping hole in history where your place in the world was determined by the amount of melanin in your skin?

Would the Vogue incident have been as controversial if it were a black model being portrayed as white? I don’t think so. But then the modelling industry has a long history of discrimination of black models, and there was never a “whiting up” equivalent of minstrel shows.

But how long will we, as a global society, let history force us to tip toe around the colour of people’s skin?

If reading this blog made you feel a little bit uncomfortable, then ask yourself why. I have felt prodigiously awkward writing it, and I am finding it very hard to pinpoint the reason.

Finding Something Shiny

Anyone who is subscribed to this blog will know the sporadic manner with which I update. That said, I do feel I have to apologise. I have had wistful thoughts of being the next Charlie Brooker or Caitlin Moran; my judgemental fingers quivering upon the pulse of the British nation, my opinion that more objective for being in China. Covering stories like the “blacking up” scandal seen in Vogue a week or so ago, the new wave of young sailors taking to the high seas to traverse the world and my generation’s apparent addiction to the Interwebz have genuinely been considered as blog topics.

This happens so often; I have the whole piece virtually written in my head. Then, alas, I find something shiny, like Nick and Norah’s Infinate Playlist streamed on some site, and all hope of writing anything is subsequently lost.

It is a frightfully sad thought, but if I were to be paid for this then I would probably be more motivated. I would sit down in the trendy café, in a manner very similar to my current one, and type away about the wonders of democracy, the struggles of the third world and how much we all hate Jan Moir.

I have, however, yet to receive the traffic or demonstrate the reliability of someone worthy of being paid for something like this. Woe. Is. Me.

I have been thinking about the future a lot. I know! How very un-Buddhist of me; I should be living in the moment and all that, like Jonny Wilkinson, but it’s been fun sort-of-not-really planning my future.

The more I think about it the less I can see myself moving to China and working here after I graduate. From people I have talked to this seems to be the only real option for graduates of Chinese and, quite frankly, I don’t like it.

I don’t know what this says about me, but I think the fact I am so away from YouTube and the “community” when I am here has a big thing to do with it. I feel like I was doing so much with rhymingwithoranges when I was back home: the charity work, Summer in the City, working on lots of different projects, and all of a sudden they have all been put on hold.

I feel like I could still have something of a YouTube franchise here. There are some fantastic video shows here; Sexy Beijing, Danwei, that I feel I could find a niche somewhere. I have been thinking that, when my Chinese gets better, I could start doing interviews with some interesting people here. I already have a couple in mind.

But then, I don’t know, I feel like it would be miniscule in terms of what I could do back home.

Maybe I’m not looking at the big picture enough. Am I really going to be on YouTube for the rest of my life? Am I going to be able to make a living from it? ‘Cuz, let’s be honest, I’m no viral sensation.

Also, if I choose to focus on YouTube I will, inevitably, end up falling into some kind of media. I have always kind of been wary of choosing journalism as my profession. No offence to any journalists who happen to read this blog, but I have always thought that that job tends to be full of talkers, not doers. I want to be a doer, can I be one if I choose this direction? I mean, it’s all very well promoting debate etc etc, but most of the time I feel like I’m preaching to the converted. I don’t want to be a preacher either.

I also have to consider what I am going to do after summer 2011, when I graduate and am set loose into the real world. Should I do a Master’s? If I do, what should I do? Where should I go? It’s a scary proposition.

At this point in the blog I think I would usually be expected to wrap up with some kind of conclusion and evaluate what I have learnt through this train-of-thought journey. But honestly, I‘ve got nothing.

Ooh! V V Brown’s album on Spotify! Shiny.