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	body & soul inspiring stories

My Saturday Job
By Valerie Sartor
Web Exclusive, October 2, 2006

Every complaint in my mind vanishes whenever I think of my kids. It never fails to lighten my mood or stop my homesickness. As though illuminated by preset safety lighting, every Saturday from ten to twelve my heart feels radiant and bright; it literally melts like a forgotten popsicle left out in the intense Mongolian sun. The fact is that some young children have adopted me. As a childless mom, I'm a sucker for their attention and adoration.

Since 2004 I have lived in Inner Mongolia, a remote and still rural region in northern China, where I teach graduates and post-doctoral candidates basic English writing. My university is located in the bustling, mixed race provincial capitol, Hohut. Mongolians blend here with other Chinese in much the same way oil and vinegar dressing mixes; sometimes they emulsify and intermarry; sometimes they remain at different levels of concentration, completely isolated from one another. To my sensitive heart, Hohut houses more ethnic minorities but less racial tension than I felt as a child in the Deep South. The real problem here, as in the West, revolves around money, especially big money. In the last few years decrees from above have ordered everything unsightly to be razed and rebuilt, in case tourists might wander to our town during the 2008 Olympics. In fact, all over China hungry laborers are dismembering the old cities, tearing down cultural relics. I watch the process and shudder. It seems like they are trying to cut up elderly Chinese grandmothers in order to make way for a modern Chinese Britney Spears. The results can only be trashy at best.

It's nine thirty; I pedal past skinny Han workers, their rib cages heaving. The men stare with grim concentration, breaking apart the adobe buildings in my neighborhood. They sweat profusely and silently, wielding huge iron mallets bigger than their scrawny chicken wing arms. Brute force is the norm; contemporary is the religion. Several small grubby trash men nod cheerfully as I ride past. While they wait to load their wooden carts these deeply tanned Mongolians huddle together. Crouching shoulder to shoulder, they slam cards in the dirt and shout gleefully. Nearby, their mules wear pretty red satin bows and plastic red roses between the ears. Dust blows into my nose past my face mask as I pedal my ancient bike towards New Magnificence Middle School on this Saturday summer morning.

I'm heading to my extra job, a job I don't really need at all. Mr. Yang, my colleague at the university, begged me last year to do this work. Helping him would help his friend, thus promoting the ubiquitous guan xi, or web of powerful interrelationships among Chinese people. His former classmate, Mrs. Nin, has a husband who lost his government post last year due to the economic restructuring that has been going on ever since Comrade Deng Xiao Ping opened its doors to the West. Here in China middle aged men do not make career transitions; they either retire and live off their extended family, or they go to the poorhouse. Mrs. Nin, being pragmatic and unwilling to settle for less than her Chinese middle class lifestyle, quickly decided to open an English language school. She rented classrooms, beseeched aid from three Chinese English teachers, all her former classmates, and then, through Mr. Yang, snagged me as well.

"Without you, a golden haired foreigner, we are just scraggly chickens in the dirt," said Mr. Yang softly. "Just like those poor construction workers. No one will pay much heed to us." We were sitting in my dark apartment; his soft hands were stroking my fingertips rhythmically. "We need you, a bright peacock, to lure the parents to bring their children. I beg you, do not allow my comrade to starve."

It all sounded very melodramatic to me, but Mr. Yang undoubtedly is my very best Chinese friend, so I agreed. It helps, too, that he adores me and calls me his "exotic mistress with the golden hair." I'm divorced and forty nine; I'm susceptible. Mr. Yang's romantic notions, probably gleaned from old DH Lawrence novels, really go a long way in this grim country.

And so I went, sacrificing my Saturday mornings, to teach seventeen little upturned faces in a borrowed classroom. Like fledglings I fed them bits of jellied fruits as they responded to my simple English dialogue. And like baby birds they hopped and jumped around the classroom, eager to try their budding wings, peeping in all directions "Good morning, how are you?" and other simple phrases to everyone in range.

Tiny Wendy, with her shiny green hair band and twin dimples, frantically waves her arm. "Oh honored teacher, me, me, me! I can speak the answer!" she shrills, while Sunny, plump as a poulet, sits demurely, watching me with steady eyes. In the back the boys are shoving each other and trying to squirt water pistols hidden beneath their desks. Then Tony pushes Michael; he's so fat, like a little goose, that he topples to the floor. The class breaks out into peals of laughter; both boys kowtow and apologize, smiling hugely. They know only in a foreigner's classroom that this behavior will be indulged; Chinese teachers are very strict and formal.

Some of the children are so beautiful that my eyes water looking at them. "If I had such a child, such perfection," I think wistfully and sniff. Katie, gawky, seems to be growing taller as she sits elegantly, her hands folded over each other. Everything about her is long; long hair in two thick plaits, long arms and piano fingers, long slender flawless child legs. She placidly watches me with large, intelligent eyes. Next to her sits Hope biting her pencil, her skin seems to glow; her tiny veins are translucent. Behind her squirms Joey. He's dapper as a blue jay, he eternally squeaks and shifts in his seat, pecking and tugging at his satchel. Always moving, chattering, happy and eager, dainty Alice is my sparrow. In the middle rows perch two girls, both a full twelve years old. They tower over the others; they are my flamingoes; long legged, elegant little birds, who occasionally give out a shrill peal of laughter and them quickly cover their mouths and lower their heads, trying to save face. Charlotte glares at them silently, frowning with her thick black brows; she's serious and solemn, my owlet child.

I adore them all; I can't help it. Long ago, in my so called fertile years I wanted kids but I could never carry one for more than three months. After three tries I gave up; the horror of miscarriage grew exponentially worse with each try. In my forties an indifferent doctor accidentially found several tumors; thus, I relinquished my womb to ensure my survival. Certainly, as the devout of many religions believe, everything that happens to us in our lives is the best it could possibly be. Who knows, maybe my stillborn children would have been monsters, or maybe I'd have birthed seven children and worn myself out with no time to write or travel? In any case, as time has passed, erasing the painful memories, I've accepted my lot as a barren woman.

But today, like a broody hen with her clutch, I lead my little charges through their exercises, then hand out mini bottles of water, and twist open the caps for the littler ones. Watching them gulp desperately makes me grin; I know they want to escape en masse, fly out into the sunshine, and whirl themselves around the playground, where they'll have ten minutes of utter freedom from adults. And, as usual, two of the little girls huddle near me, watching me sweetly and murmuring Chinese phrases I don't quite understand. But the feeling is clear: we like you; we send you our affection.

At twelve our second period ends. The children sit up straight and wait for me to officially dismiss them. They are so polite, so dignified. "Class is over," I formally pronounce. Then I stand by the door and bid each one by name goodbye. Walking out into the playground I blink and reach for my sunglasses, for the sun blinds me. As I unlock my bicycle suddenly there is eight year old Joey, my energetic one with the flashing eyes. "I will escort you to the first light," he says with great decorum. We leave together, he on his tiny toy bike, rims flashing cobalt blue, me on my fifth old junker (bicycles here are stolen at the drop of a hat). Traffic whirls around us; Joey is not fazed in the least. "That's the other thing I love about China," I think to myself, "It is completely child friendly. Children play anywhere, anytime, day or night. They ride bikes or wander alone; no one will snatch them or hurt them. Even strangers regard children as part of their extended family. Children here are safe: they are coddled, protected; cherished."

"I turn here," says Joey, interrupting my thoughts. "Please go home safely and slowly, my honored teacher."

"You too, little one," I smile and reply in Chinese. "We shall meet again soon."