Today I had to break up my first fight. Between two boys. IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS!

The students were writing in their English journals, and these two boys in the back of class got a little rowdy and started putting each other in headlocks. I ran to the back of the class and said loudly and firmly, "HEY! STOP THAT NOW!"

They didn't understand a word. And I doubt they would have obeyed me if they had. Fortunately one of the boys in front of them got involved, translated my instructions into Chinese and pushed them away from each other.

I asked one of them to change seats. He refused. "I want to sit next to him," he said, pointing to his friend and fellow combatant.

"No. Sit here," I said, pointing to the desired spot.

He refused. "Fine," I said. "I will tell your head teacher that you do not want to change seats."

He just stared at me. He was testing me. I gave him five seconds, then started walking toward the door.

"No, no! I'll go!" he said. He had barely finished his sentence before he was in the new seat.

Their head teacher is in the same office as me -- coveniently located next to their classroom. During a Senior One teachers' dinner several weeks ago, the other teachers decided that he would be my bodyguard. I saw him make a boy cry my first day at school. He's not someone I would want to mess with.

Why didn't I take them to the head teacher immediately? Because fighting between students here isn't as looked down upon as it is in America. Students duke it out all the time between classes, in the hallways, outside... no one stops them. Boys hit boys. Girls hit girls. Boys and girls hit each other. I don't know ... maybe it's because this generation of only children missed out on catfighting with siblings.

The teachers even hit the students from time to time. One day I took a student to the head teacher because she hit me with a ball (on purpose) during a game. I wasn't sure if the teacher was taking my complaint seriously, until she smacked the girl in the back of the head.

From today's China Daily (www.chinadaily.com.cn):

"Human rights is abstract like the concept of fruit, which is a collective notion of an apple, pear or banana. But the United States just wants to push its ideal of human rights to the whole world as the standard of human rights fulfilment. It's like saying only a banana is a fruit, the apple and pear are not."

~ Dong Yunhu, vice president and secretary-general, China Society for Human Rights Studies

I was preparing to go bowling as I wrote that last entry. Mr. Liu, William and I were to go to the bowling alley at 10 a.m. to practice and have lunch before the competition started at 2 p.m. At 10:01 a.m., just as I was about to grab my coat, Mr. Liu called.

"The plan has changed," he said. Now we would meet after lunch. I later would find out that Mr. Liu had spent last night drinking baiju until the late hours. So we missed morning practice and what, according to Vanni, was a nice lunch.

We arrived at 1:30 p.m. and played a bit before the competition started. My first throw landed in the gutter, and my second knocked down two or three pins. I hadn't bowled in a year, and I never was great anyway. We had a team of six -- William, Vanni, myself and three teachers from a local post-secondary school.

I surprised myself. I scored 106 points in the first round and came in third out of the six team members (Vanni had squeaked by me with 107 points). I didn't do so well the second round -- only about 90 points. But I did well enough to be ranked second among the women in the competition. So myself and the other top six female scorers duked it out for the championship.

Alas, my hands were tired and my arms weary. When all was said and done, I fell two spots, to fourth place.**

I was devastated. Winning this competition meant everything to me. (Yes, I'm being sarcastic.)

But there was one consoling fact: fourth place was good enough for recognition at the post-competition banquet. They called my name in Chinese, I stood, shook the organizers' hands, posed for a picture (no TV cameras this time) and accepted my prize, a book called "Paper Cut in China." Mr. Liu beamed with pride and toasted my accomplishment at least four times during dinner.

After dinner, he went downstairs to smoke a cigarette while I finished my noodles. I said good-bye to Lisa (the female champion) and Sheree, who I had just met that day. It turned out that Sheree had some questions about my relationship with Mr. Liu.

"He's not your boyfriend, is he?" she asked.

(For those of you who don't know: Mr. Liu is my liaison with the school. He is 51 years old. He chain smokes and chews betel nuts constantly. He is, in William's words, "always a little drunk." Getting his hair washed -- he doesn't do it himself -- is a special occassion.)

"What? No!" I said.

Sheree took my hand as if she were one of my late grandmothers. "Be careful," she said.

"He's not my boyfriend," I said. "I promise."

"Still, be careful," she said. "They see these things differently in China."

She's right, actually. Sometimes men and women are viewed as being romantically involved if they are seen alone in public. E-mail me if you want to hear more about this, but I don't really feel comfortable going into it on the blog.

I assured Sheree that I would be careful, and we left it at that. I went back down to meet Mr. Liu, ran back up the stairs when I realized I'd left my scarf there, and we rode off into the night (on a public bus, with about 10 other people).

*****************************

**Yes, there were more than four female bowlers! I'd estimate there were about 10.

Yesterday the temperature dipped below 40 degrees for the first time (sure, it was only 39 degrees, but still...) And two fun things happened that same day:

-- My gas burner ran out of gas (hence, no hot tea until at least Monday). Mr. Liu said the workman does not work on weekends. If that's not true, I'd love to know who prevented me from going back to sleep this morning by pounding a hammer as hard as he could outside my window.

-- The water in my bathroom sink turned copper last night as I tried to brush my teeth. Fortunately, I had plenty of bottled water saved.

And now it's time for .... BOWLING!

Christmas is my favorite time of year, but there's a small part of me that dreads the excesses that come along with the holiday. Too much Christmas sweets, lights, and fake snow are never a bad thing, but the glut of music bothers me.

I love traditional carols, but that's not what you hear on the radio during the holidays. Every singer on the face of the earth records a Christmas album, which gives radio stations plenty of crap to choose from when 'tis the season. That, plus the fact that Halloween has become the new kickoff to play Christmas carols on radio, leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth throughout December. It culminates on Christmas day, when I get the urge to throw the radio out the window because it's nothing but holiday music until midnight.

I don't have that problem this year, because very few people celebrate Christmas in China. My students all know about the holiday, and they are familiar with "Father Christmas" (as they call Santa). But with the exception of the nearby Converse store, where they have a Santa sticker in the window, there's no sign of mistletoe. jingle bells or boughs of holly.

That's why the first Christmas song I heard yesterday sounded so sweet. I was feeling a little stressed, as I was mapping out my lessons for the month and trying to juggle teaching the students about Christmas, giving them the mandatory end-of-term tests (even though we all know they count for nothing) and teaching the students a Christmas song by the 21st, as requested by one of their regular English teachers. She wants to have the students sing the song during a lesson on music that she will teach that day.

I figured it out by the end of the day and walked home, suddenly eager to hear some Christmas music. I went to live365.com, where they have wisely segregated Christmas songs into their own channels. I put one on, and soon, the voice of Perry Como filled my computer room. (I think the song was, "Walking In a Winter Wonderland.")

In America I always thought Perry Como was a little hokey. But here, after almost a year-long absence from Christmas music, Mr. Como was just what I needed to lift my spirits.

Some good news: I found a Chinese tutor! I've mentioned her in a previous post -- her name is Jane and she's an English major at a nearby school. I met with her on Sunday and I think she'll be pretty good. I'm helping her with English in return.

So far she's taught me how to politely ask for the menu in a restaurant: "Wo keyi kan yi xia caidan ma?" Before this I would ask for a menu by saying "Wo yao caidan." English equivalent: "Yo, waitress, bring me the menu!"

My conversations with Chinese people so far, with the exceptions of some students, have bordered on the superficial. People couldn't be nicer to me, and we always have a good time talking, but we only scratch the surface. I hope knowing more of the language will help people feel more comfortable with me. And I think talking to Jane will bring me many insights into Chinese culture. She seems open to candid discussions about herself and China in general.

This posting will not be too deep, as I teach at 9 a.m. tomorrow. It's my only class of the day, though, which makes up for its early time.

An Er Zhong English teacher spoke those words to me yesterday morning, as we were en route to Mao Zedong's hometown. And she was not kidding.

Whenever I tell people where I am living in China, they immediately say, "Oh, Chairman Mao's hometown." Yep, the founder of China's Communist Party grew up only an hour's drive from where I live and teach every day.

I went to Shaoshan with the headmaster, his wife and Nina, the above-mentioned English teacher. We met at 8:30 a.m., and I tried to impress the headmaster's wife by saying, "Hen gaoxing jian dao ni." (It is very nice to meet you.) She smiled and patted me on the arm. Then she -- and the other three Chinese speakers in the car -- mimicked my attempted Chinese for the next five minutes.

Eventually Nina started speaking English again and asked me how much I knew about Chairman Mao.

"Oh, I know a little ..." I responded.

Here's a rundown of what I know: Mao Zedong was the central figure in Chinese government from 1949 until his death in 1976. The Chinese see him as a great leader who unified China and brought the country world prominence. China's official view is that he was 70 percent right and 30 percent wrong.

There's a lot crammed into that 30 percent, including the Great Leap Forward, which resulted in the starvation deaths of least 30 million peasants, and the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), an campaign against intellectuals that resulted in the deaths of millions of people. Intellectuals were sent to labor camps in the countryside, and schools were shut down so students could join Mao's red guard movement (these students often were the ones torturing the intellectuals). Anyone alive during that time was impacted by those events, including, I'm sure, the three school officials who accompanied me. But they don't blame Chairman Mao for what happened.

In Shaoshan we walked through Dripping Water Cave, where Mao lived for 12 days in 1966. The signs said the bunker was fully bombproof (even though there was no war at the time. As Nina said, "He wanted to feel safe.") We saw the hut where he grew up, including the room where he explained to his family that he was leaving them to become part of the "family of China."

Then we walked toward a large statue of Mao, where Nina had told me people go to pray. Indeed, there were people bending in prayer under Chairman Mao's watchful, saluting body.

Nina approached a large group of students wearing army-like uniforms. They told her that they were students from Changsha who had walked overnight to Shaoshan. It took them at least 10 hours.

Then Nina and the headmaster's wife approached the statue. "We pray!" she said.

"Um ... I will wait over here," I said. I'm open to new experiences, but praying to the deceased Party leader is not one of them.

Their prayer was quick -- the two women bowed twice underneath the statue, then stood in silence for a moment before joining me again. On the way to the car, I asked Nina what people pray for.

She smiled and laughed wildly -- in China, a sure sign that the question had made her extremely nervous. Nevertheless, she answered.

"My health," she said. "Sometimes I do not know -- I just imitate."

Last year, she said, the head teachers for Senior Three had traveled to Shaoshan to pray for their students. The college entrance exam -- the only deciding factor in university admissions -- was impending, and the teachers wanted their students to do well. (The prayers worked for Nina, at least -- 30 of her students did well enough to get into a university. This is probably out of a class of about 50 students.)

I told Nina that I was happy to be living so close to such an important place in China's history. And I meant it. I came to China in part because of its recent history, both the dark aspects of 30-40 years ago and today's fast-paced development. The people with whom I interact every day all have been affected by these events.

But it was impossible to know the feelings of those hundreds of visitors, each of whom either lived during the Cultural Revolution or have a parent who did. During the last week of our orientation, a former field director spoke to us about modern Chinese history.

His closing words were (and this is paraphrased): The people you meet have more going through their minds than you will ever know. At the end of the Cultural Revolution, people just went about their daily lives. People who were sent to labor camps now were working beside their torturers. And no one ever talked about it.

There were no therapy groups after the Cultural Revolution. No psychiatrists around to diagnose post-traumatic stress disorder and prescribe any appropriate drugs. I wonder how this has affected not only them, but their children (aka anyone between my age and my students' age.)

It's likely that I'll never find out the answer, at least not directly from someone I know. This isn't a subject that comes up over dinner. And I don't think it's my place to ask. It would be like if someone came up to me, out of the blue, and asked me to describe the worst possible thing that has ever happened to me. It might be history to me, but it's their lives.

So I was left to imagine, as I watched people walk past Chairman Mao's childhood dining room. As I watched children pay 10 RMB to pose next to a lifelike statue of the leader. As I watched their parents pray to a man who some say gave freedom to an entire nation, and others say he crushed the lives of those same people he had promised to liberate.

In Yangshuo there is a road nicknamed the "Western Street", either because of the numerous Western restaurants that dot the road or the large number of foreigners that walk down the streets every night. Most of the shopping we did in Yangshuo was on that street.

We were approached one night by a gaggle of Chinese students who wanted our autographs. Just another group of people shocked and delighted by the sight of waiguoren, I thought.

Then I got an e-mail from my Chinese friend Jane, who is an English major at the local university. I had told her about my trip to Yangshuo.

Turns out she had visited Yangshuo her freshman year:

"You know that Guilin is famous for its scenery, and attracted a lot of foreigners," she wrote. "So, the department arranged us an "exercitation" there (but we say it's a travelling or visting) to let us practise our English with the foreigners face-to-face. The department arranges it evey year for the freshmen, and some of the teachers can also go there with us.

"You can hardly imagine how we start a talk with foreigners when they are walking in the street. I remember we walked in the "Western Street" every night to "hunt" foreigners to talk to, and the street is too short. That is also a sweet memory for me."

Oh, but I can imagine.

I was thrilled to receive a call at 9:30 a.m. from Mr. Liu (my liaison), who told me that my cell phone was fixed. Sometimes it really pays to have a liaison whose wife owns a cell phone store. I told him that I would come to his office before 11 a.m. to get it.

At least that's what I thought I had said.

Around 10 a.m. I took a quick shower, dried off even more quickly (considering that it is about 45 degrees outside, and at least as cold as that in my apartment). Literally five seconds after I had put on my pants, I heard someone yelling "MAH-REE-SHA?" outside my apartment.

"One minute," I said. I planned to answer the door after I finishing putting on my socks.

Then there was knocking.

"MAH-REEEEEEEEEEEEEE-SHA!" (pause) "WILLY!" (Oh, goodness, he was going after William, too.)

In China people don't knock on your door politely, then wait a minute before knocking again. They pound the living daylights out of it. Mr. Liu takes it a step further: he yells before he knocks.

Fortunately I had just enough clothing on to answer the door dressed in an appropriate fashion. Had he knocked a minute earlier, I would have just been getting out of the shower.

Mr. Liu made up for the early wake-up call by whipping out my cell phone, newly repaired after suffering some damage in Yangshuo. I thanked Mr. Liu profusely, and he raised his left hand in a farewell gesture and left.

One minute later, William runs by my apartment, saying "I am coming ... please be patient!" He is talking to Mr. Liu on his cell phone. William returns a few minutes later with exciting news.

"On Dec. 10 there is a foreigners' bowling competition," he said. "Mr. Liu signed us both up."

I burst into laughter. Now I love bowling -- even though I suck. Under any other circumstances, a Sunday afternoon of bowling would be a nice, relaxing way to kill time.

Unless you're in China, bowling with a bunch of foreigners. Then there will be TV cameras and oodles of gaping Chinese folks. Maybe if I do badly (as I'm sure I will), they won't put my face on television. Or maybe I'll do something so blooperish that they can't help but put it in (like drop the ball when I swing it behind myself -- DO NOT LAUGH BECAUSE I HAVE ACTUALLY DONE THIS).

So yes, a week from this Sunday, Willy and I will represent No. 2 Middle School in the foreigners bowling competition. I'm actually really excited about it. In fact, I'm starting to enjoy the attention that being the resident waiguoren/freak show earns me. I love it when babies smile and point at me ... or when little children taunt me by yelling "Hello!" at the top of their lungs. When I see my students snickering at my winter clothes/hair/my general freakishness behind my back, I point to whatever they are laughing at and say, "Very beautiful, right?" Heck, I practically encourage people to make fun of me now.

So a bowling competition in front of the whole city? Bring it on.

There's a pretty interesting article in the New York Times today about "unschooling," a new trend in home-schooling. It's mostly irrelevant to what I'm going through in China, but one of the parents said something that got me thinking:

“When you think about it, the way they do things in school is mostly for crowd control,” said Karen Tucker, a mother of three boys who is an unschooler in Siloam Springs, Ark., and belongs to the Unschoolers of the Ozarks.

There's some truth to this statement when it comes to my teaching methods. My single biggest regret about teaching is that I cannot give more students personal attention. I have about 325 students spread throughout seven classes in two buildings -- keeping up with all of them would be impossible.

Using their names in class is really difficult, because I can't memorize that many names, they never use the nametags I had them make the first day of classes and about a quarter of them forget their English name anyway. There is one class where I only know two names, and those are the ones of the only two girls who regularly participate in class.

This week I resorted to putting the students' numbers (row number and seat number) in a box, then calling on random students to answer questions during a listening activity. I hated doing it. But it is the only way I can think of to get more students listening and participating.

So far, it's had mixed results. In one class the students really started paying attention when I pulled out the box and did so well that I only needed to pull a number from the box once (and the girl who I called on had the answer written in her book). In another class, I used the box for every question, and maybe one person knew the answer. The other students just looked at their neighbors' books, despite me telling them not to. Cheating isn't encouraged by the Chinese teachers, but it's always overlooked.

My students all know where my office is, and they know they can come there to see me anytime they want. I probably will start handing out my e-mail address soon too, just in case they can't find me in my office for some reason.

I really would do anything within my power to help these students, but given the language barrier, cultural gap and Chinese education system, that's far easier said than done. It's a shame, because sometimes the kids who could benefit from extra help the most are the ones who will not raise their hands and ask for it.

For these reasons, I often feel like I'm just keeping the kids entertained (or giving them a soundtrack for sleeping and doing other homework), than actually arming them with useful English skills. Hence, a "crowd controller," rather than a teacher.

But, of course, there are other roles I can play. As corny as this sounds, this year will be far more productive if I see myself as a "cultural ambassador" in addition to being a teacher. My class might not have a lot of educational value, but I can show them that there is more to America than what they see on television, read in magazines, etc.

I've learned that as rowdy as these kids can get sometimes, if you give them something that really arouses their interest, they'll be quiet and listen. It's happened a few times, like when I did my Sept. 11 lesson. I need to find ways to recreate that sense of attention. If I can do that, I'll be a far more effective teacher than I would be just doing lessons from the book.