(Written 9/1)

IT’S NOT THE FALL THAT WILL KILL YOU
IT’S THE LANDING

At last I found a kindhearted soul to take me shopping for groceries. She was one of the Chinese teachers (teaches the language of Chinese; I’m not that redundant, thank you) and like everyone else here, she insisted upon paying for everything. I hate that. I mean, I appreciate the gesture of warmth and welcoming but for crying out loud, I’ve been here a week tomorrow morning and have yet to spend a single red cent (as it were)… yuan… whatever.

Nevertheless, she was kind enough to show me the grocery store and the fruit peddlers. While I can manage the grocery store, the fruit peddlers are a different matter entirely. I hope the next time I see them that sign language will work. At least I’m starting to be seen around the area and people know me.

Today was the first day of classes for me (September 1, 2006) and I got off to a great start. I was called at 10am with by my headmaster with the question of, “Where have you been? Why did you not go to your classes this morning?” I explained I had no idea I had classes and was informed I needed to get to his office, double time. Keep in mind, I have been hanging around my apartment most hours of the day and night for the past few days, waiting for that phone call. And it finally came, one class into my “she should have had this already” schedule.
I hauled ass across the compound and poured myself into his office. He apologized for not telling me that I had classes and sent me off to see one of the grade school teachers. I was brought quickly to the grade school, given my schedule and told I needed to start teaching in ten minutes. Fortunately, I had neither prepared nor had any idea what the language capacity of my class was going to be. I was under the impression I was going to be teaching a variety of older students but instead, I was teaching 8 year olds. I played games for 45 minutes and sweated my ass off, I was so nervous. I then had lunch, had to hang around for another two hours, wing it for another 45 minutes, break for a half hour and then another 45 minutes.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown, I decided to briefly stop off at my headmaster’s office to drop off the loaner umbrella before I went home to cry myself to sleep. Frankly, the only thing that blows more than the first day of school is messing up in every way possible the first day of school. Upon dropping the umbrella off, I was informed I had another 45 minute class to teach to middle school students immediately. I have never felt so unprepared in my life. This will probably come as a surprise but I am a control freak and often criticized as a “perfectionist.” I live by the notion that if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it rightly, honorably and intelligently or I’m not going to do it at all. And my first impression here is not only that I do not bother to show up to the classes I am to teach but that I don’t even prepare for them.

I wanted to curl up and die. Or drink myself into a stupor. Whichever would let me cry first.

It was the culmination of a very trying week and all I wanted to do was cry myself to sleep. I’ve been in my apartment with no internet access and family who has no idea how to reach me here in China. Nothing heightens culture shock worse than being completely severed from home and without a single person like me around.
However, my beloved colleague (of dim-sum fondue fame) hooked me up with internet access, dinner at one of my student’s parents’ home and I was showered with a fan fare of noodle-love to the point of bursting. It was one less meal I had to have at the cafeteria, so my affection for this man runs very deep.

And here I am. Alone at last in my apartment, trying to pull my shit together. I just want to go home. I hate it here. I want to go home, marry a man who will love me forever, have kids and be a housewife. I learned very young that there is no knight on a white horse prepared to save me but I really want him here, now. I never want to do anything remotely adventurous again. I’ve learned my lesson. I want to go to PTA meetings. I want to live in a shelter of money and a haze of comfort and never have to struggle again. I don’t want to deal with other people’s screaming kids. I don’t want to have to be the foreign toy that has “Nice to meet you” screamed at her repeatedly from across the street as she turns to wave and be friendly by saying, “Nice to meet you! Hello.” I cannot go anywhere without being the local attraction. I am the only Westerner around for several miles. Yes, Westerners come to this city but nowhere near where I am.

I miss my mom. I miss my puppy Emma. Everyone here has a Pekinese and all I want is my little cuddle bug of a Shi Tzu. I miss my mom’s puppy Billy. I miss my friends. I miss my life. I miss my anonymity. I miss my brothers. I miss my language.

I just want to go home. I want to go home.

I have made a mistake. I want to go home.