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."