ON THE NERVOUSNESS OF YOUNG MEN

I think there is nothing more delightful about being a female in her late twenties than the nervousness of young men. The heavy looks of men brave enough to take you on is really, really nice but the sweet willingness of young men is truly delightful. I remember being a young(er) woman and watching the boys trip over themselves to be nice to the older woman and I always wanted to be her. Now I am, and unlike most fantasies of “when I’m older” this one is truly all I had hoped for. It is nice to know someone likes to look without having the nerve wracking, underlying “rejection discussion” hanging in the air. (It’s true; for the most part women know whether or not they’ll let you sleep with them long before it’s even a discussion.)

I am tutoring a 16 year old young man in English. In fact, he is the “teenage son” who was at my Chinese friend’s house the day before my birthday when my Chinese friend usurped my party plans. I met with his father a while back and my Chinese friend brokered a deal between us for me to have oral classes (i.e. sit and have a chat) with his son.

As I left the negotiations for said classes, the businessman escorted me home and suddenly the man who spoke no English spoke very good English with little accent. I was amazed and commented. He explained that he had not had any English since he was in high school. I told him he retained it perfectly and he seemed quite happy with that. He was charming and lovely and so is his son. In fact, he told me that after our brief meeting the day before my birthday, his son had requested that he learn English with me specifically. Consequently, the father contacted my Chinese friend and told him it needed to happen. How’s a girl not supposed to love that?

I tutor his son twice a week for an hour and half at a time. We sit and chat about life and, he being a teenage boy, sports. He explains football (soccer) to me as I know nothing about it and I give him basketball terminology. We talk about poetry and music as he plays the saxophone and loves classical music. He is very bright and he picks up on things remarkably quickly, despite his claim that he’s not very good at English. I consistently tell him the truth of how smart he is and he is beginning to blossom. His comfort level is growing and with each observation of his intelligence, his English gets that much better. He is charming and nervous (in the approval-seeking way, not the self-conscious way) and wonderful. The unwritten rule about men and women here is that the men work hard to impress the women and the women show their approval (or not). However, I’m foreign so no one is fully clear on the rules I play by. Western women come from a world where chivalry, for the most part, is dead and Western women are allowed to discard men like tissues. Consequently, the nice thing about being my age and being foreign around here is that all the young men want to have your stamp of approval like a badge of honor. They work hard to get it too. It’s impressive.

Tonight (10/26) was another lesson. He arrived and the house was a mess. I apologized profusely for the mess and he said not to worry; that his room is a mess and that my home is not messy. We chatted and had a good time and his English improved by leaps and bounds; further supporting my belief that positive reinforcement and not retribution fosters the growth of language abilities. I have also allowed him the space and time to think through his thoughts and fully articulate what is in his head because he definitely knows his own mind. As I watch him think, I am haunted by thoughts of him being in America trying to come up with his thoughts and consistently being cut off under the misconception that his lack of swift recall with the language and reflective nature is indicative of an idiot. I am left to think of all the immigrants in America who have been forced to take menial jobs despite the fact that in their home country they are highly qualified professionals. I am left to wonder why it is that we equate language speed with brain function even when it’s clear English is the foreign language or there exists a mere surface issue (a palsy or a stutter). Perhaps I am merely overly sensitive as I am dyslexic and come from a family where a lot of us suffer from dyslexia. I get that flawless execution and flawless content are not synonymous. I know what it’s like to be trapped behind the limitations of something not of your own design, how much work it takes to get out from underneath said limitations and how easy it is to be completely discouraged from trying to unearth yourself. I went to the Hackley School when I was young and not yet diagnosed with dyslexia. I was effectively illiterate until the fourth grade and I know the kind of work it takes to compensate for such issues when the rest of the gifted students you work with are writing two page research reports in the first grade. I remember crying myself to sleep, night after night, beyond frustrated and unable to articulate what was wrong. Had I know what suicide was at 5, I would have seriously considered it. I, the child swayed by nothing but the need for approval, remember thinking, “I don’t care anymore. I will go to bed because asleep I am not stupid. I don’t care that mommy and daddy will hate me and my teacher will yell at me.” When you’re consistently rebuked for issues you’re trying your hardest to overcome it’s just easier to give up and accept the “stupid” or “lazy” label.

However, I also know the sensation of finally getting beyond said limitations. It’s like soaring. To have a talent that is entirely your own and incredibly hard won is second to nothing. No one can take it from you and you owe no one anything for it. You fucking earned it. It also means that your struggle was worth something and that you were right all along; that you are, in fact, worth something.

So, as my blossoming 16 year old left tonight, he turned around to me smiling and said, “Thank you teacher. Have a good night. See you Sunday.” I was glowing. Normally, he scurries out of my apartment with a shy little wave, an awkward little bow of gratitude and no comment but tonight he left with our notes from our class and commentary all his own.

I wish I could hug teenagers in China.