Teaching English: Culture shock
this received much coverage in news yet i did not see it discussed here:
Teaching English: Culture shock
Like thousands of Canadians every year, Lindsey Craig moved overseas to teach English in Taiwan – but she’s the one who got some hard life-lessons
BY LINDSEY CRAIG, SPECIAL TO THE MONTREAL GAZETTE MARCH 8, 2011 4:48 PM COMMENTS (371)
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Like many Canadians, Lindsey Craig went to teach English in Taiwan. She got some hard life-lessons.
Photograph by: Lindsey Craig, The Gazette
Note to readers: To read Lindsey Craig's response to comments about this story, please click here. Gazette Life editor Evangeline Sadler shares her view here.
“To say I’m disoriented is an understatement. I don’t feel like I’m any part of this place – just looking in on a culture and people I don’t understand. The streets are crazy – if there are rules, no one follows them ... I haven’t seen one Caucasian female yet ... is there a reason? The pollution is worse than I expected. Imagine putting your head over a sewer on a really humid day and breathing in as deep as you can. That’s what it’s like here, everywhere, all day, all night ... Last night I met up with a giant black and orange beetle. Will I have to learn to live with all of this? I can’t even cross the street yet. How am I going to teach little kids?”
– MY FIRST EMAIL HOME FROM TAIWAN ON JAN. 11, 2005
Every year, thousands of Canadians head abroad to teach English.
In 2005, I was one of them. I lived in Taiwan for seven months – and it was the most difficult experience of my life.
Ross McBride, manager of Toronto’s ESL in Canada, estimates that 6,000 to 9,000 Canadians teach abroad every year. (The exact number is difficult to calculate, he said, since teachers can work without visas and many schools operate illegally.)
China and Taiwan are popular destinations, especially following the Chinese New Year in February, since that’s when many new jobs are available. That’s when I decided to go.
Like many others, I was attracted to teaching English overseas by the promise of adventure, and the chance to discover another people and culture. The added bonus of making money while doing so made it even more attractive.
The boyfriend I had at the time, Cliff, was also ready to board a plane with me. Taiwan looked like a promising destination.
For one, it was one of the few countries where teaching salaries were high and the cost of living low. And in addition to there being hundreds of jobs available, as native speakers with bachelor’s degrees, we qualified for most of them.
Taiwan also excited me since it seemed completely different from anything I’d ever experienced. The tiny island is part of the Republic of China, and home to 23 million people. In 2005, Taiwan’s population density was 630 people per square kilometre, making it the second-most crowded country in the world. Canada had just over three people per square kilometre that same year.
Most foreigners on the island live in the capital, Taipei. But since my friend Marcel was teaching English in Taichung, the country’s third-largest city, Cliff and I focused our attention there. Guidebooks bragged that the city was close to national parks and hiking trails. A key website for foreigners (www.tealit.com) was jam-packed with teaching jobs in the city and social events for Westerners.
Still, I confessed to Marcel that I had a few concerns. I’d heard the pollution was bad, and that there were bugs – lots of them. Would I be able to cope? But Marcel said Westerners used gyms instead of jogging, and escaped to the countryside on weekends. And while there was the odd critter in his apartment, he said he didn’t see them very often. He also raved about the experience he was having, and said we could stay with him when we arrived.
With that in mind, I tried to reassure myself. The country met so much of our criteria, how could I say no?
On Jan. 9, 2005, Cliff and I arrived in Taiwan. After three flights and 28 hours in transit, we longed for a breath of fresh air. Instead, inside the terminal, we were hit with the smell of diesel from buses and trucks outside. When we exited the airport, the smell from the sewers was worse.
That year, the World Economic Forum ranked Taiwan second from the bottom out of 146 countries for environmental sustainability. Its emissions also grew faster than those of any OECD country between 1990 and 2006. I’d heard similar statistics before I left, but breathing them in was another story.
During our first week at Marcel’s apartment, culture shock set in. I couldn’t identify anything – the signs on the streets were all written in Chinese, the food was a mystery, and unless there were pictures in the windows, I couldn’t decipher a drugstore from a drycleaners. When I saw a pig’s snout hanging from a hook at a Taiwanese market, I was revolted. “This is what they eat?”
As I struggled to cope, Cliff and Marcel found a place for Cliff and me to live – a small apartment on the 14th floor of a 17-storey apartment building. The Australian who had been living there said it was “safe” during earthquakes. I hoped we never had to confirm. (By the end of my stay, there had been two earthquakes in Taiwan. They didn’t hit Taichung directly, but one was close enough that paint chipped off our walls).
Fortunately, the Australian moving out also recommended me for the teaching job she was leaving behind. After a brief interview, I was hired and began after the Chinese New Year. I also managed to find evening work teaching adults twice a week, and Cliff found a job as a science teacher at one of the wealthier schools.
Next on the list of essentials was mastering my new mode of transport. While learning to drive a scooter was easier than I’d expected, navigating the streets was daunting. Some signs were written with letters from the English alphabet, but they were often spelled differently than they were spelled on a map.
For instance, “Taijunggang” Street was also written “Zhonggang” and “Chunggang.” “Uenshin” was also “WenXin” and our street name, “Gung-Yi” sometimes appeared as “Kong-Yi.” To get from Point A to Point B, I had to sound out the words on the signs to see if they could match the words on the map.
Even worse were streets marked only in Chinese. Once, I had to find a doctor’s office by turning right “on the street after the sign with the apple.” Given that the apple was hidden in a smorgasbord of Chinese signs, which I had to scan while weaving in and out of cars, trucks, scooters, three-wheeled contraptions and the occasional dog, I spent half an hour searching for it, missed the appointment and had to reschedule. (Cliff and I eventually found it together).
As the days went by, the stress I felt only seemed to get worse. Our second night in our apartment, Cliff sprang up from the bed yelling, “Something just flew on my face!” When he turned on the light, there it was – a big, black cockroach with wings – in our bed. We tried to tell ourselves it was a fluke, but when roach No. 2 woke us up the next night, we knew we had a problem.
The next day I made my first major purchase in Taiwan – a collection of RAID and a roll of duct tape.
Every night, I sprayed the apartment and sealed the drains. In the morning, I donned a pair of gloves to collect the belly-ups. Once, I found one on my toothbrush.
Thankfully, I was more at ease at the schools where I worked. The kids in my classes were between ages 4 and 12. They called me “Teacha” and liked to hold my hand. Meanwhile, the students in my evening classes, who ranged from teenagers to an 81-year-old man, gave me an interesting insight into Taiwanese culture. For instance, I once taught a 15-year-old whose parents had changed his name four times because they thought it was bringing him bad luck. For most of my classes, I was paid $23 per hour. Given that my rent contribution was less than $200 per month, it went a long way.
While things were going well at work, the communication and cultural barriers beyond the classroom continued to overwhelm me. For example, every day I saw people throwing some sort of paper into roadside ovens. I initially thought they were burning garbage, but eventually learned it was “ghost money” – special paper people burned as a gift for deceased relatives.
Men also drove around spitting out red drool. It splattered the ground and looked like there was blood all over the streets. I later discovered it was betel nut – a reddish-brown seed that men kept in their mouths to give them a buzz.
Adding to the disconnect I felt was that few people spoke English. And often when they could, they refused because they were too embarrassed to make a mistake and “lose face.”
My inability to communicate also created uncomfortable moments. When a taxi driver brought me to the bus terminal instead of the train station, I had no other recourse but to raise my arm and say, “Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-choo-choo.” (Thankfully, my ingenuity worked).
Another time, when I indicated to the school cook, “Auntie,” that I wouldn’t be eating lunch that day, she looked concerned, began making farting noises and pointed to my backside. I eventually learned Auntie was worried I wasn’t eating because I had diarrhea. (She seemed relieved to find out I was simply heading to the gym instead.)
Other lapses in communication were more traumatic. Like the time I was driving on the highway and saw a man slumped under a scooter ahead of me. My heart began to pound as I wondered if the man was dead or alive. I wanted to call for help, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t know the name of the street, and even if I’d found a sign, I wouldn’t have been able to read it. Plus, I couldn’t speak Chinese to call 9-1-1. I hated being so helpless.
There were unsettling moments at work, too. One day, my Chinese teacher said the parents of Daniel, one of my students, had called. I’d talked with the 11-year-old’s parents before about his disruptive behaviour. But the Chinese teacher said they’d called to say they’d “taken care” of the situation. When I asked what she meant, she said: “You know, beat him, so he act betta.” I was horrified. I didn’t know what was worse – that his parents abused him, or that it was socially accepted.
I was trying to connect with my new world, but the more I learned, the less I wanted to be part of it. Grappling with it all was exhausting. My days were marked by frustration, shock and disbelief.
James Lowe, a cultural counsellor for minorities and immigrants in Vancouver, said my reaction isn’t surprising. “With everything going on at that time – the different food, lack of clean air, social isolation – to learn about different parts of the culture that are very different from your own, it’s overwhelming,” he said.
Dealing with it all may have been easier if I’d been able to build a stronger network of support. Although I was there with my boyfriend, I longed for female friendship. I’d met a handful of foreign women, but we didn’t have much in common. I did become friends with an Aussie named Kate, but we lived far apart and didn’t see each other that often.
Foreign guys seemed to be having an easier time. Insects and chaotic streets didn’t seem to bother them as much, and Taiwanese women treated Caucasian men like Hollywood stars. The bigger the nose, the more handsome the man, they said.
The attention I received wasn’t nearly as warm. Taiwanese women asked to feel my hair sometimes but said very little. As for Taiwanese men, my presence in their country was apparently baffling. In Taiwan, women don’t leave their parents’ homes until they are married. I had not only left my family home before marriage, but left my country and culture. “Being a woman in a very traditional culture is very different than being a man in that culture,” Lowe said. “In terms of gender roles, when you come in and break the mould, they don’t have a way of understanding what you’re doing.”
Fortunately, my isolated experience had exceptions. A woman at the gym invited Cliff and me to a traditional family dinner and the caretaker at my school kindly treated my scooter burn. Eventually, we also began spending time with a group of foreigners. But even with trips to karaoke bars, temples and lakes, I still felt miserable.
And so, despite my efforts to enjoy Taiwan, at the end of July, seven months after I’d arrived, I boarded a plane for home. When I arrived at Toronto’s Pearson airport, I was so relieved, I burst into tears. Finally, the cockroaches, the pollution, the stress and confusion, were over.
The impact of my experience in Taiwan was lasting. I’d accepted a scholarship to do my master’s degree at the University of British Columbia, but when I arrived, I didn’t have the energy to adjust to yet another new place. I wanted to go home.
When I told an academic counsellor I was thinking of leaving, she asked what it was at home that was so important. When I teared up and blurted, “Everything I know,” I suddenly realized the impact Taiwan had had. A few hours later, I dropped out.
Returning home to Burlington, Ont., was exactly what I needed. For the first time in nearly a year, I felt stress-free. The simplest of things – like understanding a radio ad or knowing where to buy a stamp – were effortless.
A few years later, I completed my master’s degree. Today, I’m living in Montreal, studying French and learning Québécois culture.
I am thankful for what my experience in Taiwan gave me – strength, courage and an incredible perspective on the world and its people. Having lived as a minority, I have a profound appreciation for the challenges new Canadians face. I am also even more understanding of cultures and values that are different from my own.
I now know I was not ready for Taiwan. I did not research the culture adequately enough, and I should have gone only if I’d had a genuine interest in learning the language. As McBride, manager of Toronto’s ESL in Canada, points out, China and South Korea are “the most difficult areas to go into if you don’t even have a basic vocabulary.”
I had naively assumed I would be able to get by.
Those considering teaching abroad should research their destination as much as possible, and ask themselves: Can I adjust to the food and the climate? Do I want to learn the language and will I commit to it? Do the living conditions appeal to me? Do I share the values of the culture? Will I know how to access medical help? Are there resources for Westerners? Is this somewhere I want to live or is visiting enough?
As well, if making money is important, they should carefully evaluate what they are willing to sacrifice in exchange. In my case, the financial benefit wasn’t worth it.
Had I more seriously considered these factors, I may have had the incredible experience that thousands of others have had.
“It’s a very nice way to travel, you get to know the locals, and you are always respected for the job you do,” said Dainn Van Doorne Legris, coordinator at Montreal’s College Canada, an internationally recognized school for teachers of English as a second language. “It’s very enriching – that’s why many teachers stay for two, three years.”
My experience teaching English abroad was the most difficult of my life. But if I’d more carefully prepared, it could have been one of the best.
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