Then there was Li Wei—yes, the name was real, but the man? A walking paradox in a polyester suit. He’d deliver lectures in flawless English while simultaneously correcting me with phrases like, “Actually, Teacher Sarah, *in China*, we say *‘I am very busy’*—not *‘I am really busy’*, because *really* is too emotional.” I stared. Was he saying my emotional tone was unprofessional? I was just trying to say I was tired after grading 47 essays about “My Dream Job”!
I once asked a colleague if she wanted to grab tea after school. Her reply? “Only if it is not *too* tea-like.” I blinked. “What does that mean?” She leaned in, voice hushed: “I don’t want it to taste like *your* tea. It must taste like *real* tea. Like tea from the mountain.” So, I spent the next three hours searching for a tea that wasn’t “too” anything. I ended up with a cup so bitter it could dissolve steel. I still don’t know if it was the tea or her standards that were too high.
One afternoon, I asked a group of students to write a paragraph about “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up.” One boy handed in a single sentence: “I want to be a man who does not need to be taught by a foreigner.” The teacher’s assistant read it aloud, then paused, then said, “Ah. Very… *bold*.” I handed him a tissue. I don’t think he was crying. I think he was just trying not to laugh.
There was also the time we had a team meeting and someone suggested a “cross-cultural team-building exercise.” The next thing I knew, I was in a room with five coworkers, each wearing a different country’s flag as a scarf, dancing to “Gangnam Style” while pretending to be “more emotional” than usual. I was the only one who didn’t know the dance. I just stood there, nodding like a confused owl, thinking, “Is this *really* how they bond?” I later found out they were all secretly filming it for the company’s internal “Culture Connection” video. I still haven’t watched it. I fear I’d see myself doing the robot in a Mao suit.
And then—oh, the *bathroom incident*. A colleague, after a long day of “cultural immersion,” entered the restroom, looked at me, and said, “Sarah, I think I finally understand the *real* meaning of *shower*.” I froze. “Uh… okay?” He whispered, “It’s not just about washing… it’s about *letting go*.” I nodded slowly. “Right. Like… emotions?” He stared into the mirror and said, “Yes. Like water. Like *freedom*.” I left the room feeling both enlightened and slightly suspicious that I’d just been given a spiritual lecture by a man who once cried over a missing pair of socks.
Let’s just say, if I ever write a memoir, the title will be *I Survived China, But Not My Coworkers*. It’ll be a bestseller, mostly because people will want to know if I ever got my “Teacher Sun” name badge back. And yes, I did. I now keep it in my desk drawer. Not as a souvenir. As a reminder: sometimes, the most bizarre people teach you the most important lessons—like how to laugh when your soul feels like it’s been mispronounced.
In the end, I don’t regret the chaos. The loud accents, the cultural mix-ups, the tea that tasted like regret—those weren’t mistakes. They were the messy, hilarious, beautiful ingredients of a life lived not just *in* China, but *with* China. And honestly? I’d trade my perfect English for one more awkward, unforgettable moment with those unforgettable people any day.
*P.S. My worst colleague once told me, “Sarah, in China, we don’t say *‘I’m sorry’*—we say *‘I’m not ready yet’*.” I still don’t know if that’s a life lesson or a really good excuse for missing a deadline.*
Categories:
Chengdu, English,
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