IN WHICH I TOSS A SPANNER INTO MY OWN WORKS

For those of you not up on your English slang, “tossing a spanner into the works” is the equivalent of “tossing a monkey wrench into the machinery” (or however the hell it goes; “spanner in the works” just seems to stick with me better than “monkey wrench”). Because a thousand different men isn’t enough, I’ve made the active decision to welcome one more man into the orbit of potential candidates for, “snogging (and a few more, unspeakable activities) buddy.”

Like Z, he too is a teacher within the private school system I work at; an absolute recipe for disaster but a reflexive choice I’ve made nonetheless. My gut wants what it wants. It’s gotten me this far, it only seems fair to continue to trust it. My one saving grace is that the two men don’t know each and rarely cross paths because they work at different schools. This addict may use clean syringes but she’s still shooting into the vein.

This afternoon (3/22), I decided to indulge my growing fantasy for the history teacher so adored by every other woman at school. He has a “boyish” beauty about him that I find wholly unappealing as a singular image and yet every other female around me is practically falling all over herself to simply get a photo with someone so stunning. What I like most about him is his clear discomfort with such idolatry and his utter lack of interest in trading on it. He is, in fact, so disinterested in being adored, he often sits with students, as it is a deterrent to many of the boyfriend-hungry women at school. He clearly takes a lot of joy out of having lunch with the non-predatory females and is always swamped by adoring students. He is has an easy smile and the overwhelming nervousness that most of my fellow teachers have around me does not exist in the realm between us. And he’s a history teacher. As the daughter of an historian and as an art history major myself, how sexy is “history teacher?” It’s not sexy; it’s zexy.

Yesterday as I came into the central courtyard of the Middle school for my Wednesday classes, he happened to be roaming the halls and walking in the same direction as I was. We smiled at each other and the familiarity there had the comfort of old friends so I opened my mouth to start talking to him. He simply looked at me, anticipating what would come out of my mouth.
It wasn’t until I started to vocalize that I realized we didn’t have a common language. It was a very strange realization and confused, I looked at him. He nodded in return.

“Wo wang le. Ni bu hui shou ying yu he wo bu hui shou han yu.” [“I forgot. You don’t speak English and I don’t speak Chinese.”] I explained.

He laughed and nodded. “I can speak little English.”

“Wo hui shou han yu yi dianr” [“I can speak little Chinese.”] I clarified.

He nodded and smiled as the bell rang and students poured out into the hallway with us. Immediately, he offered me the stairs first and as I ascended, he slipped behind the mask to maintain respect with a woman to which he has not been formally introduced. I forgot what a clear line there is between public and private Chinese life as it has been a while since I have existed in the “public” sphere.

I glanced back at the history teacher to see the mask was on fully and wouldn’t be coming off in front of the students in order to maintain respect for me. The two single teachers everyone seems to have a crush on fraternizing in the stairwell makes for some good gossip. Hell, the students know about a math teacher, his wife and their lover because they follow the teachers who peak their interest. A publicly indecent relationship between the two of us would certainly make things irritating for me.

However, I’m brazen and certainly not as concerned with my reputation as I should be. People are going to talk. I’m a lightning rod. There’s nothing to be done about those two things. Let them talk. I’ve disowned my own father and my mother’s not about to disown me, much less over something as silly as my “reputation.” I have nothing to lose.

Today I took every opportunity to flirt with the history teacher. At lunch, he was just sitting over my left shoulder and I could see him out of the corner of my eye. The couple of times he turned to glance in my direction for whatever reason, I turned to look at him and smile. To my good fortune, he saw me and smiled back every time.

Then, after I finished my classes for the day, we happened to be in the hallway at the same time. I was with my Chinese Angel and were talking and he was a little behind us.

“Lao shi” I said, stopping. My Chinese Angel looked at me and then glanced around the hallway as she knew that I would never call her “lao shi.”

It took the history teacher a moment to realize I was talking to him. Shocked, he looked at me, smiling. I was breaking through the mask and flagrantly ignoring the rules of propriety. He’s made friends with my friends. He’s literally been in the same social circle (read: physically around our mutual friends when I was there so I could see that he’s not a scumbag) but we have not been formally introduced (the final of more or less three steps to introduction and my least favorite step as it involves a mutual friend speaking to the two of us about the beginning of our friendship ad nauseum; it’s reasonable, it’s rational and it makes total sense, but I’m a garish American; ultimately, I will simply go after what I want… ceremony be damned).

“Ni…” I trailed off trying to remember this week’s Chinese lesson. “Ni de mingzi shi shenme?” [“What’s your name?”]

Infinitely amused, he started laughing and looked to my Chinese Angel who raised an eyebrow and nodded once, indicating my unorthodox methods are fine by her and he may continue.

As he soon as he got the approval from my Chinese Angel, he turned to me and did something most Chinese people don’t do; he enunciated and spoke slowly. I watched his mouth move and it actually helped me to understand what he said. Most of the Chinese people I’ve met don’t get that English is in the front of the mouth, not the middle of the mouth like Chinese and so most Chinese people I’ve met don’t understand how important the visual of enunciation is to English speakers.

I repeated his name back to him and got it (more or less) right. “Xie” [“Thanks”] I said.

Amused if not a touch flabbergasted, he shook his head.

“Oh,” I said, surprised at having forgot my manners, “Christina.” I said pointing to myself.

He started laughing again. “I know.”

I shrugged, a little embarrassed at my redundancy. I knew he knew. Everyone knows my name. I can’t do anything about this little bubble of fame I’ve stumbled into. However, it’s only good manners to introduce yourself when someone introduces themselves. It just seems rude to presume that everyone knows me.

We left him at the class he was to teach, laughing. My Chinese Angel shot me a look, knowing full well I’ve just tossed a spanner into the works. What can I say, the devil in me pops up at the oddest times and she’s hard to ignore.