Chinese teacher struggles to cope with U.S. students BY DAVID PIERSON Los Angeles Times
LOS ANGELES — Zhao Yan Feng finally lost his cool minutes before the bell sounded, signaling the end of fourth period. For nearly two hours, his classroom had teetered on anarchy. Students chatted on their cellphones. They put their feet up on desks. Some had their heads down, sleeping. A clique of girls debated loudly where best to shop for jeans. “I need your cooperation,” Zhao pleaded in a clumsy Chinese accent. “If you don’t want to learn this language or be in my class, just don’t interfere with others learning. I’m just a guest teacher.” It had been three weeks since Zhao (pronounced Jow), 27, left his hometown in northern China to join a program that sent dozens of Chinese teachers to school districts across the United States. His two-year assignment: teach Mandarin at Dorsey High in South Los Angeles, where test scores are well below state and national average, two-thirds of the students live near the poverty line and most have had scant exposure to Chinese culture. “Why do I do this?” he said to the students, who were silent for the first time. “Because I want to be your friend.” Two girls in the back of the classroom giggled at the remark. Others stared at their desks. The bell rang, and the teenagers charged out the room — except for a boy who was still asleep. Zhao tapped him on the shoulder and told him to leave. It was the end to another humiliating day. “Two years,” Zhao said. “Sometimes I don’t know how I’ll do it.” EARLY OPTIMISM Before he left China for Los Angeles, Zhao, a university instructor, had been optimistic. A partnership between the College Board in the United States and Hanban, China’s language council, had selected him and other teachers to bring Mandarin to American students. Imparting a language to others, he thought, was a profound gift. Zhao had been told by other Chinese teachers that American high schools can be tough. They said the neighborhood around Dorsey was dangerous and that he should always carry $30 in cash. If he was ever mugged, they said, the money could save his life. When he arrived, he saw police stationed in squad cars outside the campus. He assumed there had been an incident. He soon learned the police are there all the time. He thought Dorsey looked like a prison. The campus is surrounded by a tall fence, and just getting in and out was a challenge. Zhao immediately stood out. He seemed to be the only Asian on a campus divided between black and Hispanic students jawing loudly about their summer vacations. During his first week, he decided to poll the class. “What do you know about China?” he asked. One student said she’d heard of Shanghai. The room fell silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. Zhao tried again. “Do you know what the Great Wall of China is?” More silence. Then a student looked around and asked: “What’s the Great Wall?” One morning a few weeks later, Zhao woke up in a cold sweat. The situation with his students had only gotten worse. This morning, like every other, Zhao left his tiny Chinatown apartment at 6:30 and caught the first of two buses that would get him to Dorsey by 7:45. He would give his first quiz. He wasn’t expecting many of his students to get more than half the questions right. Zhao had heard a rumor: Another teacher in the program — somewhere in the Midwest — had quit and returned home. Zhao was secretly jealous, but he knew he’d lose tremendous face if he left, especially so soon. Still, he felt the weight of the cultural differences. He was grappling with the way some of his students treated him. In China, teachers traditionally command unquestioned authority. At Dorsey, the few good students were being overshadowed by those who walked around the classroom to talk to friends, sent text messages and defied Zhao’s orders to pay attention. He could not understand why his efforts — traveling all the way from China to share a resourceful language — stood for nothing to so many. It didn’t help that the students could not understand Zhao’s stilted English at times, and that he rarely offered encouragement. In China, a simple “hao,” meaning “good,” is often the extent of their praise. Zhao decided he had to try something new. He hoped that Chinese paper cutting, or gifts such as chopsticks and watercolor paintings, would provide some incentive. He stayed up until 3 a.m. making name cards with Chinese characters for each of his approximately 50 students in both his classes. He told a girl that he would give her one if she would participate just once in a dictation exercise. She told him she didn’t care if she got one or not. Zhao gave her the card anyway, and she started mouthing the words moments later. When he gave a quiz, it was the first time Zhao would see if his students had learned anything. As Zhao dropped the tests on their desks, a girl picked hers up, examined it and loudly blurted an expletive. For the next 45 minutes, the class seemed to fall in and out of consciousness. Some attempted to answer such questions as: “Chinese culture was the cradle of Japanese, Korean and some Southeast Asian cultures — true or false?” Others looked as if they were sleeping with their eyes open. But something changed the moment Zhao started explaining the answers. A competitive spirit emerged among some in the class. When they got a question correct, they cheered. When they got another one right, they started moving their shoulders in a dance. “I knew that one. I’m a genius. That was easy,” said a playful Alena Monet Cox, a 12th-grader who straddled the line between those who misbehaved and those who paid attention. HELPFUL ADVICE Sharon Markenson, a veteran Dorsey instructor, told Zhao, “The way to get them cooperating is to hold them accountable. This is a work environment. Break up the friendships and racial groups.” Zhao thanked her for her suggestions. He promised to think about setting boundaries and developing activities. All good, he thought, but could he put it into practice? Within days, Zhao was taking away students’ cosmetics and phones. He stared down those who talked over him. Scolding didn’t give Zhao any satisfaction. But now that he was beginning to control his classroom, he was pleased with how much more time he had to teach those with an interest in Mandarin. Antonio Carrillo, a quiet student, was getting more interested in Chinese each week. He and other students began asking questions and staying after class to chat with Zhao. They came alive as he discussed Chinese culture. Zhao and his students returned to class last month. Maria Hernandez rattled off all the Chinese nouns she could remember. She said the words so fast that Zhao couldn’t keep up recording them on the board. During the next period, some students participated in a spirited vocabulary review. But they were distracted by another student who was loudly chatting with her classmates. Twice Zhao took her into the hallway, telling her to stop. It had become a routine: limit the damage by unruly students and continue to reach the interested ones. It’s not the dream of teaching in America that Zhao had when he arrived, but for now it’s the best he can do. BRYAN CHAN/LOS ANGLEES TIMES Zhao Yan Feng, center, leads Bryan Payes, left, and Aaron Williams in a Mandarin vocabulary game at Dorsey High in South Los Angeles. Zhao, from northern China, is part of a program that has sent dozens of Chinese instructors to the United States.
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