My Teachers Were Stupid, and So
For years I didn't like my teachers and neither did they.
ph. KRISTINA PAUKSHTITE
Growing up, I wasn't a typically compliant and rule-abiding student as were some of my childhood friends. When I was first-grade my best friend Xiaoyu and I thought we should make some present for our teachers on Teacher's Day. We found some cheap plastic ruby ring that fit our budget, embedded in a paper wrapped gift box we made and gave to our math and Chinese teachers in front of the entire class, right before some parents gave them something that turned out to be much more appealing, and realistic: a shopping card. As a six-year old, I didn't quite understand the weirdly sarcastic smirk shown on other kids' faces, as well as the teachers', but I took it pretty clearly that 'Don't send crappy presents again' was the cue for the rest of my life.
I never celebrated Teacher's Day again, except one time I was shopping with my mom, and I just fell in love with a set of Russian miniature dolls at the mall. I couldn't move just looking at them until my mom finally said, Hey, it's Teacher's Day and your dad teaches, let's buy him a present. So we bought the dolls, and my dad, just as I thought, gave it to me. That was the only actual benefit I got from this holiday and am thankful for that.
My lack of worship to teachers and sometimes the fear for authority came from the experience that growing up, I never got real help from my teachers. I got teases, eye-rolling and indifference, and I wasn't a bad student. Now I can understand more and finally arrive at some reconciliation with my lukewarm teacher-student relationship, because I know how incredibly hard and lucky to become an inspiring and loving teacher, especially when you had 50+ students in a class - a typical size in China. The energy and attention level are just limited for a teacher who just got a bachelor degree in primary education. But developing empathy for them was one thing, having a shadow on my whole childhood and teenage years was another. I still don't like the them. I don't like the profession and I don't respect, most of the times, of what they do. And that's why when someone yelled in the Wechat groups "Hey let's go check out and visit our kindergarden/primary/middle/high school teachers", I will never respond.
I only started changing my somewhat cynical attitude towards educators until recently, when I got into college and grad school in the U.S.
I had an amazing group of teachers at The Central Academy of Drama, where the most dazzling people in the entertainment industry hail. I got Mr. Huang for Film Production and Cultural Industry Policies classes; Mr. Tao, for Documentary Making and TV Program Production, and Mr. Li for the History of Sitcom and Composition. And there was one lovely lady that taught me the History of Western Drama. She speaks fluent Latin and once worked for the Greece Embassy. In the eye of a young professional in the making, they were my idols, and they were so accomplished and talented and charismatic. But nothing can compare to the unconditional encouragement and trust they gave to me when I decided to take up on seemingly impossible challenges myself, like going to the U.S. and getting a full scholarship, and chase my dream.
Many of the things they said in class still affect how I do things today. Mr. Huang used to give us a ton of workload of homework. I spent most of my sophomore and junior years writing papers, not drinking. And one time we complained about the overload of homework, he just calmly crossed his arms and said to us: I don't understand the fuss of it and why you guys think writing is hard. Writing is not. Once you have straightened the logic and outlined the structure, the only thing you need is just fill in the blanks, and that's easy. This sentence right there works like a magic and saved me countless times later on in life.
When I had Mr. Huang, he was in his early 30s. He was already made tenure at one of the most prestigious art schools nationwide, running his own film company, bought an apartment (in Beijing!) and car, and got married. He was the epitome of success to all of our eyes, no questions asked. Yet strangely enough one day he was talking about his college years at another top art school, and suddenly his eyes faded and said: If there was a chance that I could go back to when I was 18 in exchange of everything I have at this moment, I would do it in a blink-"Now that was bullsh*t", the 19-year-old me blurted out silently. I could never wrap my head around why that thought would make any logical sense. He was so successful, and respected and HAPPY for God sake. Why would anyone like him want to go back and give up everything.
And I was wrong.
Mr. Huang was right. When I finally entered his life stage, I was more than ready, even prayed, for the thinnest possibility to let go of my present life and the identity I once worked so hard to build, and go back in time. I miss everything I had during those years, including the pain and crying-out-loud confusion. I miss wandering through the old-beijing Huton to get groceries from the supermarket by Gu Lou. I miss looking at the gray-tailed roof top of inner second-ring of Beijing through the window of the third-floor library. I miss my bunk bed and the end-less nights crawling through papers. I miss riding my bike and swam through traffic like I had wings. I miss the autumn days. I miss the winter days. And most badly, I miss being hopeful, and believing that there was magic and a promised land.
Don't get me wrong. I still do believe in magic and have great faith in life. But in our younger and rookier years, we were torn between a world of hate and a world of dreams. So much to lose, so much to gain. So much to fight for, and so much to change. And I guess, that's why some of us choose to become teachers, to not go back, but be closer to what we once had.
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